I really didn’t mean to take a hiatus. And I don’t really have an excuse, just the usual business of life, yada, yada, yada. Plus, I have this terrible affliction of being able to think of post subjects randomly throughout the day, and then when I sit down in front of the computer, I got nuthin. (This happens with Twitter, too. Do I have some kind of bizarre social media anxiety?)
Anyway, I can’t say I have much good for today. I’m going to complain about my hair. So if this interests you not in the least, or you just can’t stand some self-indulgent public grousing, feel free to move on. I’ll come up with some less whiny navel gazing in the near future.
I met my hairdresser when I was 14. For the past hmnmnmnm years (do we have to put a number on it? Sheesh, it’s a LOT!), she’s been listening to me and doing exactly what I want with my hair. She knows me, she knows my hair, and she understands my skittish nature when it comes to haircut. You see, over the past LOT of years, there were times I had to go to another stylist, either for a specific reason (like a fashion show) or because she moved away for awhile. And NONE of those haircuts went well. NONE. I have been traumatized so many times. I have ended up with the dreaded mushroom head way too frequently to remember without shuddering. Seriously, I resembled a Mario Brothers character. So for at least the past 15 years, I’ve never deviated. She is also the only person who has ever colored my hair.
You see, my stylist moved into teaching, which is great because she’s making more stylists behave like they should, but it means she doesn’t have much time to actually do hair. She’s next to impossible to get a hold of (so busy), and, frankly, I thought she might have gotten a teeny bit expensive for my pocketbook. So I put my hair off. And off. And off. For 17 months. I looked like the lovechild of Rapunzel and Chewbacca.
Somewhere along the way, I decided I could use my fear and indecision for good and eventually donate my hair when I did finally cut it. See, I was doing this for charity! Am so virtuous!
I had many friends and family suggest, some gently and some not so gently, that I get it done already. But I just couldn’t find a stylist who met my criteria. But when my husband nudged me and said, “Honey, I think it’s time,” I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. It was either surrender to the scissors or persuade Hub to grow a chin beard so he could look Amish right along with me.
After a lot of hemming and hawing (I am good at both), I met with and made an appointment with a stylist I found in my church bulletin. My reasoning was that God wouldn’t steer me wrong (I am sure He didn’t but I never said I was directionally astute). And I sat down in the chair.
Everything seemed OK during the cutting/highlighting process, although in retrospect, I wasn’t exactly beaming with joy with what I was seeing. We’d talked before and I really thought we were on the same page. But something was off, and I knew it while she was cutting. I even told her I didn’t think the shape was right. But I think I forced my brain to ignore my gut. I came home and pulled it back, telling myself it was because the new length was tickling my neck and I wasn’t used to it anymore.
My kids never noticed. No one at school pickup said a word. Even my husband didn’t say a thing until an hour after dinner. But the kicker was when Sabrina woke in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and I found myself looking in the mirror at 1 AM, and I couldn’t deny it. I’d asked for a little natural highlighting and I had ribbons of colors that were not my own running through my hair. I’d asked for shoulder length, and the ends didn’t even graze them. And worst of all, it was the dreaded mushroom head. Ugh.
Things didn’t look much better this morning. I tried to straighten it into submission and a little extra length, but no dice. I can stand it pulled back at the top because that’s how it looks the longest and least shroomy. But to say I’m bummed is an understatement. I know that sounds so unbelievably vain and selfish, and I agree. I’m irritated with myself for being so put out over hair. I know it’ll grow. But still. I went into this hoping to feel some renewed self-confidence that’s been fading over recent months. I thought I’d feel a little more comfortable in my skin. I realize that’s entirely too much to put on my hair for heaven’s sake, but I couldn’t help it. I’m not going to blame the stylist because she tried her best. I shouldn’t blame the people who told me to just do it because it’s me that followed the advice. I’m mad at myself for not listening to my gut. If I’m not going to listen to it about something as silly as hair, how can I trust myself to listen in more important matters?
Oh Lord, here I am trying to put meaning and depth into my hair. Somebody just smack me.
I will say I feel a little better having written all this mumbo jumbo, and so I’ll hit the publish button and let it go. Perhaps it will be nominated for Most Self Indulgent Piece of Junk post of 2012.
Did you think you were getting pictures? Ha ha ha, no. Not yet. Not when I look like a trapezoid (plus, today was really windy, so maybe it’s more like an upside down tornado). I’ll work on visuals once I’ve had a chance to play with it a bit more and you can tell me it’s not that bad (please).