Perhaps I've just been wistful about Nora Ephron this summer–and how she felt badly about her neck. But I don't think so. I've been particularly neurotic this week about a defining feature of mine. And I suspect a good many of us women share the same affliction from time to time. And since I haven’t blogged in awhile, I thought I’d make my re-entry to the blogosphere with a confession.
It’s about my hair. I feel badly about my hair.
I don’t like it. I can hardly think of anything else lately. And I’m really, really embarrassed to admit how much of my time this consumes me–given the triviality of the subject matter.
I wasn’t blessed with beautiful locks. My mother has made that known to me for as long as I could remember. Mousy texture. Unexceptional in color. And now that I’ve crossed over to the forties, it’s not getting any lovelier despite my recommended dosage of Biotin.
With that said, I have a dear friend who is my hair stylist whom I love to pieces despite her ability to slay me at Words with Friends. She covers my gray so brilliantly, and despite my repeated attempts with Sun-In and Loreal, I can’t compete. I'm usually pleased with how she cuts it, but every once in awhile I get antsy. I just don’t know how I want it. All I know is I yearn for change, but I can’t quite articulate what I want. So, she’ll start snipping away. And she'll work some style magic; I leave the salon with an adorable do. Then I wake up the next morning. After a shower and a hair dry, I'm befuddled. I start working on my hair and suddenly my tresses have become a rubik’s cube. I get frustrated. The cube isn't coming together. So just like the kids who pulled the stickers off the cube to rearrange the colors, I grab a scissors and start snipping strands of hair myself. Yeah, it usually doesn’t work out so well.
Lately, I had been doing quite a bit of chopping at my hair, so I decided to schedule a pedicure and a haircut with a different stylist. Maybe she’d give me a fresh perspective. Well, I must admit, I felt like I was betraying my friend. But in away, I also felt like I was giving my friend a break because I was starting to think that maybe I’m not the easiest customer in the world. Just maybe.
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| Back in the days when Mom did my hair. |
Anyway, as my new stylist cut, cut, cut, my hair, I tried not to widen my eyes, because it seemed…a bit short. Awfully short. But I trusted her—she is so very stylish herself. And then, of course, she styled it adorably–as all those hair people so effortlessly do. So, I left happy; albeit feeling guilty.
Then I awoke the next day. And showered. And dried my hair. And as you can guess, I was faced with another damn rubic's cube.
I took those scissors and started whacking even more. It looks fairly ridiculous now. But there’s not much I can do. My hubby’s going to kill me if he hears another word about my hair. I can’t go back to my faithful friend. Heck, I cheated on her. And the other stylist? I’m too embarrassed to tell her that I was just messing around with some scissors.
I totally get why Britney Spears shaved her head.
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