Hair Today Gone Tomorrow

         So today is the big day: The day I get the much anticipated and uber-necessary hair-repair-cut.

        There is something so lovely and gratifying about going to the salon. The way the stylist focuses on you only, talks about what you want and tries to make you look the best you possibly can. It’s one of my favorite self-indulgent times (other than eating chocolate in bed). But it’s the scalp massage during the wash that really makes me happy. That’ll make anyone talk. My hair stylist friend says that when she would wash people’s hair and massage their scalp, they’d just start talking…about everything you could imagine. She learned things about people that no one else had privilege to….and that she probably didn’t really want to know either. Imagine being left with the secret that someone is having an affair, or that some wife deliberately mismatches her husbands socks…. Whoa. The responsibility. I suppose there must be some subconscious need to ‘give back’ to the person who is kneading your skull. You know, when someone does something so nice for you, you want to return the gesture….by sharing dirty little secrets, I guess. I mean, at that moment you’re in the chair, what other options do you have?  And what’s wrong with getting feedback on your marriage from someone who hears a lot….from the whole community anyway? She just might have the best advise yet. You know she certainly has your best interest in mind, or she wouldn’t have spent so long rubbing your woes away while working those pressure points. For god sake, she knows the shape of your head, every bump, every contour, the dry spots and where the grays come in. Does your husband? Does he even care that your extra large and protruding cerebellum makes a dramatic inverted bob a no-no for you? Does he know that the back left of your skull has a permanent (and quite large) lump from the time you fell 12 feet down the unseen and open trap door onto a rock in the basement? It’s pretty clear-cut: The stylist knows best.   In fact, who even needs a shrink when you have a hair therapist? Does your councilor know the shape of your head and where your bump is?  Maybe, but that would just be weird.

        Clearly, I’m addicted to getting my hair cut, which is why I’ve been abstaining for about the last 18 months. The attention, the head rub, the crispy sound of sharp scissors cutting…..are all just so attractive to me that until I admitted I was powerless to the lure of the salon, I had pretty short hair. I could just never say no. I was a salon junkie. A trim tramp. So, deciding to grow my hair long was not really a style decision, but more of a financial and self-preservation necessity.  Sure, I’ve had a few slip ups here and there, but addiction is a beast. I figured if I just had a little clip once in a while, that hair high would be easier to achieve….and I’d have longer hair…..that I could use to cover my long and sad face....that was blanketed with expressions of longing (shorting) and withdrawals.

        So here I am today, having to cut short my attempt at lengthy locks. My self-inflicted mane mutilation was obviously my souls cry for help, and perhaps the destroyed do and necessary emergency salon visit was a blessing that simply forced me to seek out a professional….for both my head and my head. In any case, my appointment today is bound to put me in a good mood. My hair could not possibly get worse looking at this point, and I’ve almost developed a permanent horizontal line on my forehead from my daily use of caps.

        I’ve been jonesing all morning. I can almost smell the shampoo and hear the sharp and scrupulous scissors etching a new masterpiece. Heavenly.

        Looks like I've fallen off the wagon.