Thursday, June 29, 2017

Cutting It All Off


If you get your hair cut in the woods, did it even happen?
Morning Readers,

So, I woke up on Saturday and cut all my hair off.

This is significant for two reasons.
a.) I've had my hair long for the last nine years.
b.) I've stopped sitting on it.

They say motherhood is the necessity of invention. Or something like that. But when it comes to hair and raising children, one can attempt to dodge the haircut bullet, or she can take it in the chest and join the ranks of functionality. I've spent the better part of a decade running from the gun and hoping for the best. Unfortunately, this is what happens when you have waist-length hair, four kids, and have to go somewhere:

"Ok, is everybody ready? Of course you guys are ready. I've spent the last three hours getting everyone ready. How much time do we have left? Ten minutes? Well, I guess I won't put on makeup."

*Stops to change diaper and break up a fight*

"Right then. I have five minutes to find something to wear. This track suit from 2007 should do it."

*Pauses to add snacks to purse and find someone's lost shoe*

"Sixty seconds until I have to be in the car? Ok, I've got my flip flops and the keys. What? You lost the keys?"

*In the car*

"No, mommy didn't get a chance to brush her hair. She was too busy catching you flying off the bunk bed so we didn't have to go to the ER and be an hour late. Homeless ponytail, it is."

And so, you end up looking like this, every day of your life...


I'd had enough. And honestly? I'd become way too attached to it. I'd transformed into Gollum, brushing it out and braiding it in unattractive ways. "My precious," I'd whisper to it, while simultaneously never doing anything remotely alluring with it.Things needed to change. But because it's me, I decided to go about things in the dumbest way possible.

Me: Hi, I need to cut all my hair off. I decided this today. If you're wondering, it's only about half existential crisis, half split ends.

Salon: Your regular stylist isn't in today.

Me: I don't care.

Salon: So you're ok with having a complete stranger cut off three feet of hair, even though she's never even seen it before?

Me: Yes?

Doubt seeped in, but I made the appointment anyway. Sure, she wasn't my hair guru, but it would be simple. I had pictures. Who'd ever gotten a bad haircut when they'd brought a picture? The internet said close to zero. Besides, I'd only cheated on my stylist once before, and she'd forgiven me. So, I wished Husband the best with our little band of heathens and headed out.

"How much are we taking off?"

"Um." The plastic cape choked up on me while I dug out my phone. "Something like this?" I held up the picture of an inverted bob I'd been stalking for months on Pinterest. Managable, and it would only make me look a little bit like a frilled lizard.

She nodded while she grabbed her scissors. "Oh sure. I can do that."

Relieved, I settled back into the cool vinyl. "Good, because I- "

Snip

Unceremoniously, she'd grabbed my ponytail and chopped it off. For those of you who've never cut off butt-length hair, with a person you don't know from Eve, let me just walk you through the mental process.

1.) Oh sh*t. She just cut off all my hair.

2.) What was I thinking?

3.) SHE CUT OFF MY HAIR.

4.) This isn't my stylist. Mayday. Mayday. Jump out of the chair and run away. I repeat. Jump out of the chair and sprint to the van.

5.) I'm bald.

We'd entered uncharted territory. Trusting this strange woman's instincts, I let her cut, while I interjected with the occasional, "A little more here," and, "I'm feeling a lot of wind back there."

Pretty soon, I had very little hair left. Things were an inch shorter than anticipated. A slow panic began to build.

"I'm just thinning it out all over. You have so much hair."

"Had. I had so much hair."

"Ok, let me just course correct and match this side to that side."

It was clear we had slightly different visions for how I wanted to scar the public with my looks. Mountains of hair continued to fall and, just as I'd lost all faith in anything hair related, my stylist finished.

It was short. So short.

"Looks great." *queue crying internally*

"Glad you like it. That'll be thirty-five dollars."

I staggered back to the van and surveyed what I had left. To be fair, everything was pretty even, with only one questionable section needing to be lovingly grown like a Chia Pet. But most of my adjustment would need to be mental. Who was I? Where was I going? Did I look like Kurt Russell in Escape From L.A.?

One thing was certain. As I buckled up and settled into the driver's seat, realization dawned on me.

"I'm not sitting on it!" I shouted to the empty passenger seat.

And with that, I drove off.

Should I have waited for my stylist? Probably. But life's full of choices, and I chose to be rash and let someone take all my hair. The good news is it doesn't look anything like the time I asked someone to give me "The Rachel," back in 1999, and I ended up looking like a Kindergartner had used dull scissors to make a construction paper scarecrow.

Things can always be worse. And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some growing to do.


Until Next Time, Readers!
And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on: