haircut

I decided that it would probably be wise to get a tiny trim on my medium length, rather conservative, no-muss no-fuss haircut before going on my fantabulous BC Book Tour spree next week.  I called the place I go to and was in luck, S___n had a cancellation.  Great! 

I walked in around five minutes early and brought a book, because it doesn’t matter what the excuse is, S___n is ALWAYS late.  Today, however was different, he wasn’t even in the shop.  “Had to pop out for a moment,” a young woman with pitch black hair and tons of eyeliner informed me. 

No problem, I have my book. 

Cut to: 20 minutes later, he’s still not there and I am sorely tempted to get up and leave.  Five more minutes, I tell myself, and then I shall take me and my hair to another place of business.

At two minutes before deadline time, S___n breezes in, “Sorry, I got held up,” he says giving me a smile that probably worked when he was twenty years younger.  Not to mention, this is the 6th or 7th time I’ve gotten my hair cut and he has NEVER been on time. 

“It happens,” I say, walking a delicate balance between not wanting to be too rude, but also, wanting to let him know that I don’t appreciate it and will not be happy if he is this late the next time I come.  I figure I pulled it off, letting a little bit, of my pressed together tight lips, smile, but keeping most of my mouth straight, and I don’t let the smile reach my eyes.  I can tell by his face that he knows. 

I part with my coat, a gown is slipped around my shoulders and I am seated in his chair.  “What will it be?” he asks.

“Just a trim,” I say.

“I don’t know,” he says fluffing my hair.  “It’s Spring.  How about something new?  Something different?  Something fresh?  Something short?”

“No,” I say.  “I always regret it when I let someone lop my hair off.  This cut works for me.  It requires no attention or thought.”

“Think about it,” he says, as I am whisked off to get shampooed.  “I think you’d really be happy if you let me do something new.”

I thought about it as she washed my hair.  I was remembering other haircuts that I got and hated.  Why mess with something that your comfortable with?  And then I thought about What Not To Wear, and how nobody wants to get their hair cut, take the leap and how happy they all are after they’ve taken the plunge.

“Okay, go for it,” I say when I’m back in his chair, my wet hair dripping onto my cloak.

He practically hugs himself with glee, scissors clacking.  “You’re going to be so happy!  I’m so glad you decided to.  It’s going to be a whole new look.  Fresh.  Happening.”

Now who doesn’t want to be fresh and happening?

I couldn’t see what he was doing because my glasses were off, but I could see huge hunks of hair falling into my lap.  It was amazing how calm I felt.  Excited even, about this new, fresh, happening me that was going to emerge from under all this hair.  My head feeling lighter and lighter with every snip.

Finally he was done.  I had made his day.  He had the best time, being the mad scientist in the beauty salon.  I cleaned off the finger prints and smudges from my glasses resting in my lap, under the robe and put them on.  Hmm?  I looked a little like one of the Beatles, if they had been fluffed up with a little hairspray and styling wax.  Hmm.

“You look so cute!” he says.  “You are going to be so happy with this haircut.  It is so you.”

Well, okay.  Maybe it’s cute and I just don’t see it yet.  I wonder what Don’s going to think?

I get in the car and drive home. 

The dogs dance around when I come in the front door.  They seem to like it.  But then, they’re dogs.  What do they know?

“Hi honey,” I say to Don, typing at his computer.  “He talked me into trying something new.”

Don finishes, typing his sentence and then swivels around in his chair to look at me.  At first it’s like he doesn’t quite register that it’s me, he just looks at me a little blankly, his eyes open a little wider than usual, and an expression on his face like he’s just been hit on the back of his head with a two-by-four. 

And then the laughter come.  Great, huge spasms of it.  He can barely speak he’s laughing so hard.  “You look...” he reaches around his laughter to find an appropriate word.  “Different?” he finally spits out.

No, Don.  Wrong word. 

“You look...ha...ha...ha...” he wipes his eyes, his face, his neck, front and back, crimson with all the effort this laughter is causing him. 

“Oh well,” I say.  “Hair grows.” I’m really surprised at how calm I feel.  I don’t care if my new haircut makes people helpless with laughter.  I don’t mind if I look a fool on the BC Book Tour.  Hopefully, people will be able to look past it, once they pick their laughter-weary bodies back off the floor. 

I go into the kitchen, Don follows close behind.  He has been able to stop laughing momentarily, until I shut the refrigerator door and turn to look at him again.  This triggers a fresh wave of merriment that causes him to thump hard on his chest with his fist so he can suck some breath back into his lungs.  “Well, it certainly is a change,” he wheezes out.

I am starting to feel a little less calm and serene.  “I think I’m going to blog,” I say, walking around him down the hall towards my writing room. 

“It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” I hear him say from behind me.  I think he is trying to repair the damage.  He thinks this comment will make me feel better.  Wrong.

I enter my writing room.  He stands in the doorway, still staring at my head like an Alien has landed on it and all of a sudden I feel hurt feelings and grouchy.  “Out,” I say.  “I’m going to blog.” I steer him out of the room and shut the door.  I love my husband, but sheesh.  Sometimes he’s clueless.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Thursday, April 10, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

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