… any time I have to, say, do anything else. At all. Ever.
Listen, I hadn’t had my hair cut since NOVEMBER. I waited as long as I could, because after the relative freedom of cutting all of my hair off a while ago I immediately turned into Goldilocks and was all “I want it SHORTER. No! Wait! That’s TOO short! Now a bit longer. That’s good. A little more. No! SHORTER!” After a while of this, I settled on A Plan to grow it out to something still short, but longer than it had been, and as this involves growing out umpteen layers, I have been TRYING to stretch out the time inbetween appointments.
Because it sort of sucks to pay real money just to have a quarter inch of hair trimmed off back there on my neck.
Anyway, as I said, I waited as long as I could. Then the inevitable day came—as I knew it would—when I looked into the mirror and realized that I had achieved the impossible. Somehow, I was sporting both an afro AND a mullet! (I mean, as frightening as it was, you still sort of have to admire that kind of ingenuity from the follicles.) As soon as I got over the trauma of what I’d seen, I called to make an appointment with my stylist.
My stylist, by the way, always used to be able to squeeze me in within the week. That’s one of the perks of going to the same person for years and years. But now she’s only working half-time, and when I called for an appointment, they were happy to give me one… in three weeks.
I waited. And waited. And applied handfuls of product to my unruly mop and tried to tame it while we waited. And then today the day finally arrived!
The haircut itself was uneventful; we discussed the problem areas (“Seriously? I mean, ALL OF IT!”), the goal (“Something less stupid-looking, I think”), and how I really need to come in to have my color touched up (“Just cut my damn hair, woman”). I’m maybe one or two cuts away from what will hopefully be a legitimate hairstyle and not just some waystation between here and there, but she did a nice job shaping it up for me.
No, the interesting part was how my stylist dried my hair. She, like most stylists, seems to take great joy in arranging my hair in some massive poofy configuration that I would never in a million years voluntarily sport. When I commented on how HUGE it seemed like she was making it, she pretended not hear me over the hairdryer. Finally, with a giggle, she said, “Oh, you’re moving to GEORGIA? I thought you said TEXAS!”
As soon as she removed the cape, I sort of patted it down all around to ensure that I could fit through the doorway on my way out. I paid and went on my way.
Of course, taking the time out for my haircut meant that I had plenty of work to do once I got home, and I was mired in it when the school called and requested the honor of my presence. I ended up running out to deal with the latest crisis (so much fun! remind me to tell you about it when I’m sober again, which at the current pace of life should be… 2015!) and completely forgetting about my hair.
In fact, I forgot that when the stylist uses twelve kinds of goop and fluffs me up into a giant mushroom and I run my hands through it to smush it back down, it’s rather like punching down a nice fluffy pillow; a few minutes later, it’s all huge again. Hours after we’d returned from school, I glimpsed my hair in the mirror.
My gigantic, fluffed-up hair.
I had taken this hair down to my children’s school and sat in a miniature chair and had a serious discussion with the vice principal, and the whole time she was probably thinking, “Well no WONDER her kids can’t behave. Clearly she spends every waking minute teasing her hair within an inch of its life rather than putting any effort into raising these hellions.”
Tomorrow my hair will be normal again. But my children will still require reform school.
Wait, what was my point here, again?