Okay, so I’m not Sampson or anything, nor am I especially vain (most days), but I have a new and hideous haircut and it’s killing me.
It was on a whim, yesterday, that I pulled into the grocery store parking lot with my almost 17-year-old daughter who has been having a rough couple of weeks. Ahead of us we saw a sign for SuperCuts and she said, “I’ve been thinking of getting my hair cut.”
“Me, too,” I said, “Let’s go in.”
My hair has been long and boring for a while now, and I thought, what-the-hey, let’s shake things up. And I found a great style–short but sexy–and I took it over to the stylist.
“Have you ever had short hair before?” she asked, with a quiver in her voice. That should have been my first sign of dangerous waters ahead, but once I commit to something, I commit all the way (even if the current has picked up to “ripping” and there’s a mist hanging over the water ahead).
Gad, she took so long. More than an hour. You would think that taking your time would be a good thing for a haircut. But each section she picked up and measured so carefully, apologizing if one small piece eluded her scissors and then starting the whole laborious process over again. Finally I just wanted her to be done. Once we hit an hour, I didn’t even care what it looked like, I just wanted out of the damned chair!
She was nice, but she was tentative, and my hair is all wrong. Nothing at all like the picture. I even kind of know what needs to be done (I’m a pretty good hair cutter myself) but I can’t do it to my own hair. It’s really a sad, sad sight though. And since my house used to belong to Kim Alexis (’80s supermodel) there’s no shortage of mirros around to remind me of my folly.
Ah, at least there’s time. Time heals all bad haircuts. In the meantime, it’s winter, so hats are in.