I love my stylist.
Not only has she figured out how to contend with me, she also manages to make my hair look good and give me a cut that lasts a long time.
She’s entertaining—a young woman actively involved in her life, in life, volunteering (Make a Wish), living in big circles.
I’m steadfastly avoiding her.
It’s not her fault.
It’s all on me.
I’m there again. At that point with my hair where I can’t decide what to do with it. It’s past my shoulders. Finally. And all I can think about is whacking it off like I did two years ago.
I can finally pull it into a pony tail to keep it out of the way when I’m active. Then I think, gosh, it was so cute when it was chin length.
Quick—girlfriends, cousins, sisters—hide from me. I’m about to do that thing again where I send you a series of photos and have you pick which one you like best. Sadly, I don’t keep track every time I ask you to do this, so I don’t know if you pick the same photo each time.
I’ve had a love hate relationship with my hair since I was a child. As the only redhead in a family of full of brunettes, coal-blacks and a couple of understandable blondes, I stood out when little girls really want to blend in. Both sisters had beautiful black hair.
Jackie was born before hair products. I’m not sure why Mom didn’t shave her head as an option to trying to comb it every day. Still, it was black and she matched the family and most of the kids in the neighborhood. There I was with board straight, red hair. Yikes!
I got asked so many times, Where’d you get that beautiful red hair?
How does a little kid answer a question like that?
Once, I heard a parent quip, “From the milkman.” Within the confines of our family the adults thought that was funny. But the one time I answered a waitress that way in a crowded restaurant, I thought my Mother would never come out from under the table.
At five, who knew?
Somewhere in my late teens, hair halfway down my back for the second time, I decided to embrace my red-hair and how it went with my freckles. What the heck, I gave in. There were some heavenly years of enjoyment until I turned 39.
One too many wisecracks from men (some who didn’t even have hair!) about the white hairs creeping into the red made me start down the ever-dooming color-path. When will I quit?
Somewhere between then and now, my hair got out of control. Is it the coloring? Being post-menopausal? Did my hair get a mind of its own? Short, long—it doesn’t matter. My hair does what it wants to do every day.
I give up!
My best intentions don’t control it and neither does having an excellent haircut. Uncle D always—no matter what state my hair is in—asks, “Can’t you do something with that hair?” My husband likes it all the time. He’s no help.
Back to Dawn, the stylist from whom I hide.
I’ve given her free rein and she’s succeeded.
Photo I’ve carted in? She’s done a good match.
I’ve known what I wanted or didn’t care what I get.
Presently, I’m hovering between those two states and indecisiveness does not sit well with me. While I understand middle ground, compromise, and fence riding, I’d almost always rather be in one pasture or the other.
So Dawn, dear Dawn. I’m hiding.
Odds are by the time you see me again, I’ll be in a frightening state of Medusa-like locks. Be ready. Look out.
Maybe take a vacation.
Read: Friendship & a $20 bill