I got my hair cut yesterday after work. It’s short. Okay, well, not short, but short for me. When I woke up yesterday it hit the bottom of my shoulderblades, and today when I woke up it brushed the tops of my shoulders. Can’t pull it into a braid. Can’t put it into a bun. It’s short and fine and curly and sassy and I love it.
Zan is my new hair lady. I thought it would be spelled Xan, but it’s Zan. She is soooooooooooo cool. I pretty much sat down in the chair, looked at her in the mirror, and said, “Zan, I’m sick of this hair. I haven’t had it cut since March.
Do with me what you will. Except I don’t think I should go much shorter than chin length, okay?” Zan looked at me and squinted her eyes, and said, “No, I don’t think you should either. I think you need a little mosre movement.” And thus a beautiful relationship has been born, along with a new sassy haircut that makes me feel simultaneously cute and girlish, and older and more professional looking. My next appointment in in December, three days before I go home for Christmas. Can’t wait. All y’all in Miami better watch out, because my cuteness is going to blind you. Yes! And wait till I get back from Target with a whole bunch of cute little barrettes! Even cuter! See ya, long hair.
Seriously, ragazzi, I have had long hair for so long. When I moved to Seattle it was to my waist. The bottom six or nine inches was split ends, but I didn’t care. I never got it cut and didn’t have a hairstyle, really. I just parted it in the middle and let it go, or put it in long thin braids, or sometimes in pigtails. When you have long hair, pigtails don’t look so much like pigtails as like dog ears. I always looked just slightly like a spaniel when I wore it like that. I often did the Yentl thing where I wrapped braids around my head. I thought that having long hair made me some sort of mysterious fairy princess, and I was very attached to it.
My hair started falling out in big chunks though, and though it was still curly, it was getting pretty thin and dry. I complained about my split ends all the time and would sometimes try to find the worse one I could, while I was supposed to be writing a paper in my basement room, discarding the hairs that was only split in one or two directions and holding out for the four or fives. “I hate this hair.” “This hair is such a nuisance.” “This hair is gross.” That was me, all day and all night.
Carl one day lost his patience and called his hair lady, who cut off all the split ends and sent me home crying because I felt so ordinary without all my hair. Like I said, I was very attached to it. I was born with a lot of hair, according to my mom, and I’d only ever had it short twice in my life. Both instances were very traumatic. The first time happened when I was about five, during a lice breakout at my kindergarden. My mom was terrified I’d get lice. I guess I would be terrified too, if I had to squint over a wriggling and weeping five-year old with a fine toothed comb and Lice-B-Gone or whatever. I inherited my hair from the Italian side of the family, and Mom has never been quite sure how to handle it.
So she cut it off. While I was sleeping.
I don’t remember it very well, and I don’t know if I freaked out or what when I looked in the mirror (“My haaaaaaaaaaiiiiiirrrr!”). I have a couple of pictures of myself from this time period, and I looked like a little boy. I vaguely recall something about having to tell a teacher I was a girl for something recess-related, but I may have just made that up. It grew out again, lice free, and remained my crowning glory until I went away to Camp Kahdalea one summer.
I was going into sixth grade, so that would have made me, what, eleven? I wasn’t a tomboy–that was the summer I learned to shave my legs–and I knew how to brush my hair, so I can’t explain why I didn’t. I just didn’t brush it. For five weeks. At some point I’d put it into a ponytail, and I guess it just stayed there. Now I wonder how I washed my hair, because I’m pretty sure I did. It didn’t matter though…my hair was felted into one solid giant dreadlocked mass by the time I stepped off the plane. Again, I don’t remember the reception my disgusting head got, but I don’t think it was good, because the next day I was carted off to the haircut place, and came back with a short bob. I was kind of heartbroken but I think I knew I deserved it. I still can’t figure it out, though…why wouldn’t you brush your hair? And why didn’t any of the adults at the camp make me? I have no idea.
Anyway, I had short and very curly hair when we took class pictures that year…I was also wearing a pink shirt with the neck cut out for some reason…and when we got them back, we were all amaaaaaaaaaaazed at how much older I looked. “You could seriously pass for, like, fifteen, ” My Friend Ashley told me. I was so proud. Starting off sixth grade right, boy hokey! Go, me! Go, hair!
I wanted my long hair back though, just like Anne of Avonlea, and so I tortuously grew it out for several years. It’s pretty humid in Miami, you know? I had the wedge look for quite a while there, as well as a set of particularly hideous poodle bangs…I never did graduate to the Claw Bangs of the late eighties, though, where you were supposed to spray them and then rat them, or something. I experimented a little with the moussed deep side part for a while, but in the end have come back home to the simple middle part and minimal product. Zan put about eight different kinds of goop in my hair yesterday, which I have to admit made my already-cute hair look even cuter, but I just don’t have the energy to do it every day. And forget the heat diffuser…again, it made me look cute, but it’s really quite terrifying to look at. I kept wondering if it was going to eat my head or what.
But that’s okay. My haircut rises above it all. I just got my emissions testing done for my car, and I’m going to clean the house a little before I go to Target and meet Treasa and John for lunch somewhere in the mall. (The mall!). I am reading several good books at the moment. It’s a gray and cloudy day. Wherever I go, I take my newfound cuteness and sassiness with me, all thanks to my hair.