Howie says it’s time to cut my hair and, as much as I hate to break protocol and admit my husband is right, I think he may have a point. Much of my hair has fallen out clogging hairbrushes and drains or wafting into corners. Despite that, even my pitifully thin ponytail is beginning to give me headaches. My hair can only be described as “white-trash” hair. Waking up to someone my age with thinning grey hair halfway down her back can’t be a pretty sight for my long-suffering husband and may frighten the grandchildren..
I’m cultivating ferocity to counteract dotage but as much as I try, I’m more hag than goddess. I’m not Patti Smith or Judi Dench.
I’ve let my hair grow throughout the pandemic in the hope that I might miraculously turn into a lesser, homier version of Emmylou Harris or Diane Keaton…wellllll, the truth is, I’m just not comfortable going into a salon filled with potentially contagious air.
One problem is that the fellow who used to cut my hair knows me too well. That is, he knows I’m neither ferocious nor cool, and tends to give me a cut that doesn’t match my inner brilliance—which may be, in some measure, imaginative. But who is he to say? I need someone new who’s willing to assume that underneath that bland, aging exterior, there are quirky tattoos, multiple piercings, a shocking past, and a rakish present.
The other stumbling block is that I’m totally inept at stying my hair. I do not now, nor have I ever, owned or used a curling iron, spray, or gel. My hair is stubborn; it refuses to hold curl or stay in place when engineered, even by skilled hands. I’m strictly a “wash and run” kind of person. For this reason, a good cut is crucial—at an equitable price, of course.
It’s a dilemma, both within and upon my head. I’ve read about people being poisoned by their own body chemistry, strangled by their clothing. Is my hair out to get me?