So John and I had this little hair-growing thing for both of my pregnancies. He let his beard get "robust." I let my hair grow through both of them- sort of like the hockey postseason, just for fun and susperstition. The last time I really cut my hair was almost two years ago.
Then the hottest June on record came to pass. And the bike, and the saltwater from the beach, the wind, and the chlorine. I have very, very thick hair. Suddenly it was more like a mane. I went back and forth about it for a while. I even bought conditioner for the first time since high school. Then, looking at my daughter's equally shaggy and unbrushed locks, I realized I am simply not a hair person. I do not find joy in washing, conditioning, styling, and cutting hair. I can barely keep up with Sophie's curls, much less my own. It's just not me.
Thursday's haircut only furthered my conviction. John and Sophie were at the movies in Homestead, so I chose a new Supercuts close by. I've used Supercuts before, mainly because I ask for the simplest haircut on Earth. As John would say, "It's not rocket science." I even had a picture from their waiting-area haircut book. The stylist, who shall remain nameless, agreed to cut it, though she seemed skeptical at how short I wanted it. Like, Winona Ryder in the late-90s short. Things did not go well. Very quickly I went from looking like a Hispanic grandmother, with super-styled short hair, to a Marine- a male Marine. It was awful. From bad to worse. John pointed out today that she must have tried to shape things at one point- there are big craters, like she was going for a rough, textured kind of look. She would cut and then complain, "Your hair is so heavy!" Whuh?
It's clear to me that I was simply in the wrong place. Rather than respect my request for exactly what I wanted, and/or admit that she couldn't do the haircut I asked for, the stylist tried to give me what she thought I should want. Which was a disaster. I am no Hispanic grandmother, or a Marine, not that there's anything wrong with being that. That's just not me.
She made me laugh out loud when, horrified that I was so obviously disappointed, she offered to wax my eyebrows for free. Can you imagine? At some point she had cut all she could and I managed to escape her chair, only to have to sit in the waiting area and breastfeed my baby while she and the store manager averted their attention. I was not among my people. Crazy short-haired lady with the barefooted nursing baby . . . .
That said, John has become the designated hair stylist in our family, and he will be the go-to person for all of my future hair needs. He pointed out that she didn't take any time to see how my hair naturally parts and lies on my head. I love that he knows exactly what went wrong. He gave Sophie a great haircut last night.
At least there will be less conditioning and combing in our imminent future. And when it's all said and done, I love short hair. It feels like I'm finally me again.
For better or for worse. I'm thinking of writing a letter much like my grandfather wrote to Waffle House many years ago, complaining that if you call yourself THE Waffle House, you should perhaps not serve a cold, soggy waffle. There was nothing Super about my experience at Supercuts. Not one thing.
My friend Siobhan wrote a really lovely post about becoming middle-aged, and said she had heard an interview on NPR with Maia Sharp, who wrote the song, "A Girl on her Way." Sharp said something to the effect, "that a girl on her way has only has so long before she becomes a woman who never arrived."
