I have straight, thick, dark brown hair which has been long for most of my life. A couple of times over the past few years, I’ve cut it off into a bob, donating the hair to Locks of Love. I’ve always immediately started growing it out again. Not because I’m a diehard supporter of wigs for kids fighting cancer, as noble as that would be. No, it’s because I’m too lazy to make it back in to a hair salon on any sort of schedule.
I’ve also never been eager to do anything to my hair except brush it. I often don’t even dry it – it takes entirely too long! And forget putting any sort of “product” in it or *gasp* using a curling or flat iron. I just don’t spend a lot of time on my appearance, hair included.
But here lately… I’ve grown tired of my hair. I’ve started to find it plain and stringy looking. It’d probably look better if I dried it, but… like I said… that takes too long. And it gets in my face during yoga and, well, just about everything else I do. I have to keep pony tail holders on hand. It falls in my food. It’s hot.
Well, I’m not sure how it came up, but we found ourselves talking about haircuts this week while visiting family in Denver. To my surprise, my husband, who has always loved my long hair, expressed an interest in me getting a pixie cut. My hair has never been that short before, but it’s along the lines of what I had been thinking about doing.
After some internet research and a lot of hesitation, I called a Denver hair salon named Pacesetters. A woman answered the phone and I could tell I got booked with her. That made me a bit nervous. Surely if she was any good, she’d be busy cutting hair?
Anyway, I went in the next day for my haircut with Monica. It cost more than I’m accustomed to and took an hour and a half, but Monica did an excellent job. Turns out, she just moved to Colorado from California and despite having an impressive resume and 23 years experience, she’s yet to build up a clientele. Lucky me.
My hair is now maybe an inch and a half long in the back, even shorter around my ears, spiky on the top back, and not quite to my eyebrows. It is shockingly different. I love it. I wasn’t too sure at first, but it’s been a day and a half now and I’m loving it more and more as time goes on. I haven’t once reached behind me in discomfort at my hair being gone. I love it being completely out of my way. I like touching it and I like my husband touching it. I like how the wind lifts it. I like how I look in the mirror. It’s great.
Of course, the true test for any parent who radically changes his or her appearance is the kid test. Jane smiled and said she loved it, that I was beautiful. This was better than when her daddy shaved his long beard and she cried.
Daryl was coming up the stairs at my mother-in-law’s house when he saw me. His smile turned into a massive open-mouthed expression of shock. He said I looked weird. He asked if I was becoming one of those “boy women” (you know, women with short hair).
Hal took the cake by far. When he saw me, he turned away and buried his face. He refused to look up at all or approach me. And then he called out from under his arms, “Mommy! I’m never going to look at you again. You are going to have to wear a hat for now on.”
Fortunately for both of us, he didn’t stick to that insistence. I went hatless the next day and he survived just fine. His unhappiness did remind me, with a little pang in my mother heart, that especially when he was littler, he’d grab hold of my hair while I held him. It was so tender that just for a brief moment, I regretted the haircut. But just for a moment. I couldn’t be happier with the change and that, quite frankly, surprised me. Guess I need to find a hair stylist at home now.