I had an appointment—a meeting, you might say—to have coffee with a friend this morning. I had put it into my handheld and everything. Both of us have been too busy and I was REALLY looking forward to seeing her for an hour. (You know where this is going, right?) Why, I often get up and get the kids off to school and sit down and work for a while and don’t even bother showering until noon or so. But today I had PLANS so I hopped out of bed at some ungodly hour when it was freezing cold in here (okay; I finally caved and turned the heat on, today) and took a shower so that I could go have coffee, dammit. Maybe I was even thinking about having something WITH my coffee, like a MUFFIN. Maybe I was mentally giving the finger to my omnipresent box of Multigrain Cheerios. It was going to be AWESOME.
Well, she cancelled. One of her kids was sick, so she was stuck at home. And I had a meeting (a real meeting, not one involving muffins) mid-morning so I couldn’t even go over to her house and hassle her. It was sad. Tragic, really. Nearly as tragic as me being excited by the prospect of a muffin.
To assuage my despair I skipped my usual cup of green tea and made half a pot of coffee. (I no longer brew entire pots of coffee at home. Too dangerous.) I sipped at a large mug of it while tackling some work and, well, sulking. So great was my displeasure, I never even ate breakfast. Take THAT, Cheerios!
After my meeting, I made a call to my hair salon.
Here is the thing about having short hair: I thought it would be easier. It is easier… sort of. It’s easier on a daily basis, but when I wore it long I never had Haircut Emergencies. Every so often I got it cut. Whatever. With it short, one day it’s awesome and the next day it looks like a poodle died on my head. And there is no predicting when the dead dog moment will arrive. It’s a mystery, each time. Monday: Sassy! Tuesday: Homeless! It’s an adventure, really.
The dead dog moment for this particular cycle of As The Hair Grows arrived the week prior to Labor Day. (For those of you playing along at home but calendar-challenged, that’s two weeks ago.) I made an appointment for a cut and then my stylist had a doctor’s appointment or maybe she just hates me, I don’t know, but my appointment was CANCELLED. I was unable to get in for a cut prior to my trip to see Otto.
So I went to Georgia and spent a lot of time telling Otto “My HAIR is OUT OF CONTROL!” while he looked at me as though there was not only a dead dog on my head, but it had possibly been snacking on my frontal lobe before it expired. I soothed my angst with liberal handsful of sculpting gel and vowed to get in for a haircut the moment I got back into town.
Well, I got back, and I was busy, and I was distracted, and I forgot about it for a week. And then this week I started thinking about it again, but then a funny thing happened where I discovered there is YET ANOTHER stage after Homeless, and it is Maybe Growing It Out Some To Something Still Sort Of Short But Also Cute And A Bit Longer. So then I wasn’t sure what to do, but today I caught sight of myself in a mirror and realized that I needed help.
Cue the call to the salon: When can she see me? This afternoon? Great, I’ll take it. The day continued apace until finally it was time.
I sat down in the chair and opened my mouth and turned into Goldilocks. “It’s too bushy. I can’t do anything with it. But I don’t want it as short as we’ve been doing. Actually, I think I might want to grow it, some. But I hate it. So it needs cutting. But not too much. Well, what do you think?”
Fortunately, my stylist is a magician. A very patient magician. She’s able to tune out my blathering, nod sagely, and then wave the scissors around my head for a while and do exactly what I didn’t know how to ask for. (Granted, that kind of magic comes at about $50 a pop, but what do you expect for both telepathy and skill when it comes to sharp objects near your face??)
So now my hair is shorter but not as short as before. Longer but not too long. Different but sort of the same. Actually, come to think of it… I think maybe I should start looking around for a bridge to buy. Does anyone have one for sale?
Don’t worry. She really DID cut it quite a bit, though most of that cutting was with the thinning shears. I need to be thinned out, you see. I’m too… thick. Um. Yeah. And she was quick to point out that my once-lovely highlights are showing definitely signs of grey. I thanked her for her keen observational powers and asked her if she was wanting to touch up my color for free, and that was pretty much the end of that vein of conversation.
But I think I may have pissed her off, because she insisted on flat-ironing my hair and making it do all sorts of weird, poofy things. Great cut, but bizarre style. Why does this not happen to men, this phenomenon where the stylist feels the need to make you look really stupid right before you leave? I had some errands to run, too, and I actually sat in my car debating over which would be more detrimental: skipping my errands, or appearing in public with my strange little bouffant. (I split the difference, running one errand and skipping the other.)
After returning home, I tried to brush the little bits of hair off of my forehead and wet and restyled my hair until it looked like ME again. So far, so good. In fact, pretty darn good.
Now, if only I had an hour with my friends (and a damn muffin), life would be nearly perfect.