I liked my hair, my hairstyle Friday morning, November 16th. It was flirty, fluffy, sexy, maybe. But it just felt too long for my taste. I had to put mouse on it, blow dry it, and then top it with wax. The night before I'd text my hairdresser and asked for an appointment around lunchtime on Friday. Dumb idea number one. Trying to get a good haircut in twenty minutes is an impossibility. I told her as I sat down in the chair, I wanted it shorter. But that's as much as I'd articulated. So, she washed it and started cutting.
It's a slightly long version of a pixie. And by slightly longer, I mean 1/8" of an inch. It's short. I've had it this short before but it's so short it eliminates the waves and curls I like so much. I was scared after she finished blow drying and styling it. When I paid for it and three other stylists were at the counter, nobody complemented the cut. It was a certified dud. When I got back to work, the few people who did see me said nothing. Did they not notice or did they fall into the category of "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all?"
I was pretty despondent when I got home. I had run after work and jumped into the shower the minute I stepped through the door just trying to get the little excess hairs off my face and neck. I didn't feel any better after the shower. I told my husband about it and he kind of laughed on the phone. He said it couldn't be as bad as I thought. I said it was really that bad. I needed a wig. I spent an hour last night searching for wigs online. Most of what looked good were several hundred dollars. My husband scoffed at the cost and told me to be patient, that it will grow out. But that will take time, I told him. I needed to cover the damage.
My mother thought if I was going to have it that short (I didn't bother to tell her that I regretted the cut completely) I should make it platinum. I told her I wouldn't pay for that. It's expensive and time-consuming. She said she'd pay for it. That's how shallow my mom is, in my opinion. My dad asked me what I wanted for Christmas. "Apparently, I want a series of bleach jobs." He didn't get the sarcasm.
My husband and I met at a gun show today. He didn't say anything about my hair, thank God. He did say I made it sound worse and shorter than it really was. I just think he doesn't really study my hair length long enough to remember. I guess that's just as well.
But, I'm trying to peek out of the darkness that is my appearance and look at this as the start of a growth project. Personal growth through hair growth. So, November 16th 2012, is Day 1 of my journey into good hair. I took a picture of myself a couple hours ago so I could memorialize the changes. As I type, I have the hood of my college sweatshirt over my head. I'm a monk. My monastic period will last at least eight weeks in my estimation to get to an acceptable length.
I think maybe I did this to myself subconsciously. To feel like I'm making progress in my life in some arena when most areas are pretty good. Maybe I wanted to torture myself. Make problems in order to make solutions. But this solution is just patience. And I'd rate patience as an overrated virtue. Maybe this is a lesson from God. I don't know.