Folks, I survived the night without my man. Actually I had all sorts of fun making ‘bedclothes angels’ for about two minutes and then I curled up in the fetal position and wished fervently for morning. It must have worked, because the next thing I knew I had a small child appear bedside to rouse me. And in the morning even. With no references to a ‘wee’ little incident. Bonus.
I am trying to keep busy this week. I went shopping this morning for those jeans and for various items of feminine undergarments and came home with a haircut and a stack of Blockbuster’s finest instead. Quite honestly, a brilliant way to spend the day. Without the soul-destroying experience of wrestling my rear end into a pair of jeans whose tag reads several sizes more than it did ten years ago.
I’ll tell you, having a haircut for the first time in two years does wonders for the persistent headache that has lurked around for a the last couple of weeks. Now I understand why. My Mama Ponytail was literally dragging my head backward off my neck.
The hairdresser asked the obligatories - how short, what style, did you wash your hair this morning. I hadn’t even planned on cutting my hair at all today (I had washed my hair though) but I happened to walk past the salon and that pesky little Spontaneity Fairy sprinkled some of that dust of hers. Before I knew it I was asking if they had time to do a cut without an appointment. I reasoned that if God, in all his infinite wisdom, had a particular connection with my middle-of-the-back, thick-as-horse-hair locks, then He would definitely made His preference known by rendering the hair stylists unavailable.
He did not. Clearly God thought it was time I stopped clogging up the shower drain too.
Usually when I head to the salon - and I say that like I go every 6 weeks, ha! - it’s a theatrical, orchestrated event. It must be thoroughly planned and researched, online style photos printed and tucked neatly in my purse, long-hair-lovin’ husband distracted with lots of….um….Skittles (yeah, that’ll do it. Nobody will ever suspect the real weapon of choice, right? Good job Lizzie, you should be in the international espionage business).
I was flying by the seat of my pants folks. I left it all in the hands of the stylist. I figured that even if she fudged up royally then it would still be an improvement. Have you ever gone two years without a haircut? No trim, no hair colour, NO HAIR PRODUCTS OF ANY TYPE? It’s not a pretty picture. My hair grows as far outward in thickness as it grows downward. Braiding my hair gives me a rock-solid ‘rope’ about three clear inches in diameter. Uh-huh. So I gestured vaguely in the direction of my shoulders and before I could blink seven inches of my hair disappeared. I’m not one for the geometric look so even if I’d completely choked at this point, there was no turning back.
Snip, snip, snip. For almost an hour. Eventually some sort of layering was worked in near the ends, which about skim my shoulders now. The thinning scissors were used indiscriminately, and they got a workout. I lost half the length of my hair and half the bulk. My God, it felt good. It’s so l i g h t. And unlike every other haircut of my memory (all four of them), I actually think the stylist did a good job. So good in fact that I’m returning for a ‘quick touch up’ in the morning. The cut itself is brilliant. The layering eliminates The Triangle of Hair Death, always an issue with a mane as thick as mine. It’s just a tad too long. I know. I’m going shorter. Clearly, my faculties aren’t completely in order yet. Strike while the ’salon euphoria’ is still raging through the bloodstream - it’s easier to ignore the cost of the cut when you can see how cute you look.
And of course, it helps that I didn’t have to face The Glare tonight. Men are funny creatures, aren’t they? They get attached to the strangest things, like video games, old tshirts, any item of furniture they made with their own two hands (no matter how decrepit the item looks after 15 years), and women’s hair. Every other place on your body? No hair. The hair on your head? As long as humanly possible. I remember sitting down to breastfeed (yeah, men like those too) our daughter many years ago, with a preschooler Master J sitting at my feet staring wide-eyed at Sesame Street. A lady came on to sing the “Sing, Sing a Song” song (say that ten times fast) and she had hair to the backs of her knees. Talented Hubby happened to walk through the lounge at that exact moment on his way to complete some form of manly chore (probably building another piece of furniture) and he literally stopped dead in his tracks, riveted to the screen. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Elmo who had him enthralled. The swaying of her hair had him hypnotized.
I briefed him about the haircut over the phone tonight. He took it surprisingly well. He will now have time to digest the information fully although he does suspect I had it planned this way for weeks. It’s not true! I really didn’t have an appointment!
(Mwah ha ha ha…)
Unfortunately for you guys, I cannot take a picture of the said haircut for two reasons. First, I’m completely inept at taking pictures of the back of my head. You might inadvertently get a shot of my backside and trust me, you don’t want that. And second, Hubs took the camera with him this week. But when he gets back, he can take the shots for me.
If he’s still talking to me.
Where are those Skittles? LOL.
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