I have this theory about hair. At the very least, a theory about my hair. It will grow back. I make appointments with the hairdresser for a cut and color and I realize that about three quarters of the way through the cut, my hands are clinched and my whole body is rigid. I relax my hands, my shoulders, my inner core. When did all this start happening I ask myself. About the time that I’ve noticed that she isn’t even close to cutting my hair the way I want. This is after a very detailed discussion and an accompanaying photo, of me. With shorter hair. Of me. The only thing she got right was the fact it was me, and I left with hair. I have another appointment with her in December. Maybe.
I have a hair cut, but I don’t know how I managed to get there. It’s too bushy on the sides and un managable. She said I could come back and have a trim, if I felt I needed one. I do. And I won’t. So I live with a crappy haircut. And all is right with the world.
It’s just hair, eh?