I! CUT! MY! OWN! HAIR!!

I! CUT! MY! OWN! HAIR!

It was madness, I know. But it made me even more mad to look in the mirror  at the sticking-out-in-every-direction MESS which could not be combed, styled or even flattened down. 

I had a razor comb (not scissors, God forbid) so began carefully, gingerly thinning out the flapping wings at the back. Gradually I grew more bold as the bits of hair accumulated in the sink. Hey, why not – go for broke! It can’t look any worse, can it?

 When I thought I had taken off enough, I ran downstairs, all excited, and said to Bill, “Notice anything different about me”? He looked at my face, then at my blouse, and said, “Yeah?” and I said “WHAT DO YOU MEAN you don’t  see anything different!” and he made a “shrug” expression with his mouth and said, “You look nice.” 

Then I made him take my picture, which he never does because I hate it. This mad impulse came after I read a four-page manifesto from my stylist (likely a generic one from Health Canada or somewhere) which basically described the salon as a police state. The tone of it was: things will never be the same, and you will never enjoy a trip to the stylist again. So I thought: how long is this going to be, and how could it look any worse than it does now? 

I don’t think it does – I think it looks better – my head is lighter – and though I’m definitely greyer, I can more or less look at myself without alarm and have SOME hope I can keep it in shape until, gowned, masked, in full hazmat suits, my stylist and I will meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when.