hair one day

I find haircuts really traumatic.  Some girls love them, and go all the time and have their hairdresser and only that one will do.  Except for Dean, the quirky old woman my mother found to cut our hair in her basement when I was a kid, I don't think I've ever had the same hairdresser twice.

(Before)

I had been tossing back and forth for ages whether or not it was time for a trim.  My gut instinct is to avoid scissors near my hair like the plague, but I also think it's probably socially ept of me to get my hair cut at least once a year.  I didn't entirely want to, but it's one of those done things like going to the dentist.  (Which, incidentally, I happen to like much better.  My dentist, Dr. Koren, was great and I always got balloon animals and pencils and a dinky toy ring.  Unlike my visits to the pedophile pediatrician, which were not nearly as much fun.  But I digress.)

Usually I operate pretty smoothly under the "it's my hair and it gets to be the length I want it to" philosophy, but recently three of my friends had independently hinted that a haircut might be in order, and I started to re-think things.  I decided my philosophy was still right, but that I agreed with them, more or less.

Which left only one major hurdle:  the cost.  Generally I operate as cheaply as possible, and I'd seen haircuts advertised in the neighborhood of $90, which I found absolutely shocking.  Granted, it would still be cheaper than paying for a flight home to get a $15 haircut, but I'd heard rumors there might be cheapy places in the Chatswood mall I could find one for $20.  Chatswood is one of those places I've been to several times, yet always in cars with friends and thus don't feel quite enthusiastic about trying to visit via public transportation.  Not to say that it couldn't be done, but it would feel like quite an excursion.  Imagine then my surprise when I discovered that there is a hair place I walk past at least twice each and every day that offers haircuts for $29.  I think I made up my mind on the spot to go there, though it took me a couple days to actually bite the bullet.

Yesterday I was ready to hack the mane.  It was too long, it wasn't curling right, the boys clearly weren't biting, it was time.  Today I woke up and it was long and beautiful and curling gorgeously, all as if to say, "Look at me!  I'm beautiful!  How could you ever think of chopping me!?"  Passive-aggressive little beast that it is, it kept that up all day long.

Unfortunately for the locks, my mind was made up.  I'd transferred the necessary money into the necessary account, and off it was going to come.

I ventured in to the little hair shop and explained, as you do, to the girl what I wanted.  She, much to my relief, understood perfectly:  enough that I would notice, but not enough that anyone else would.  That worked out to roughly three inches (I wasn't convinced she understood imperial, but she was doing a pretty good imitation of it so I decided to let things slide), or falling just about the bra line.  It sounded perfect.

She trimmed away, and we chatted happily for several minutes.  Around this time I discovered that, in the mirror, I could see the friendly butcher I always say hi to.  I haven't got a clue what his name is (I like to think it might be "Nate"), but it was very odd to see his reflection while my hair was stacked sideways on top of my head.  (Honestly, it usually isn't.)  Nate very tactfully did not wave, and I am desperately hoping he doesn't say, "gee, nice hair cut!" next time we meet.

Eventually the hairdresser and decided to go with a couple light layers, and soon everything was finished.  I got to look and found immediately that I'd most definitely gotten the first part of my request:  I could notice.

My hair!  My beautiful hair!  Where had it gone?  (On to the floor, it seems.)

It's early days still, and (as I'd told myself countless times before actually taking the plunge) it'll grow back.  Goodness knows no one else will probably notice (in elementary school, I once got six inches off and no one had a clue I'd just been as traumatized as I'll ever be by a haircut), but I'm a bit nervous.  It just isn't the same.

It's always like this, you see.  I've finally worked out what it is, too:  I don't like the look of freshly cut hair on myself.  I like the long, scraggly, ragamuffiny, just-crawled-out-of-bed-and-got-it-a-bit-windswept look.  Perhaps I didn't use to, but seeing as I so rarely see it any other way, I just don't know how to react when it's not.  So, here's hoping the ends will take it upon themselves to split quickly.

In the meantime, I'll just be in the bathroom straightening it to get a bit of the length back.