I’ve only paid for a handful of haircuts in my life. Growing up my mom almost always had a friend that would cut my hair and I usually only got my haircut once or twice a year anyway. I trimmed my own bangs and sometimes added some layers when I got ambitious. The thick texture and varying shades of red helped camouflage any minor errors I made and I was generally satisfied. Today my skills failed me though. It was probably a mistake to get out the scissors when Cooper was starting to get tired. I should have rocked him to sleep instead of trying to cut my bangs while I sang “The Wheels on the Bus” in an effort to keep him from screaming. Should have, sigh.
I hate how hair is such a big part of my life. Not only does it have to be dealt with every day, but I have some sort of emotional investment in it. Uncooperative hair has the power to put me in a dour mood and fabulous hair can make me beam all day long. It’s ridiculous. Right now I’m just mad at myself, but I suppose sometime I’ll have to calm down and figure out what to do with it. Grrr.
On a happier hair note, here’s some proof that Cooper is actually starting to grow some. And a silly extra credit poem I wrote a couple of year ago in my Medieval Lit class for anyone still reading this. It’s a dream vision, so it involves the main character falling asleep and dreaming about events that have allegorical, didactic, or moral significance. I wrote it right after one of the times I’d donated my hair (which I’ve been waffling about doing again).
Tresses of Turmoil“Hair shouldn’t be a dead thing that lies on your cheeks” These words from the movie Hairspray have resounded in my mind for weeks. Image after image appears on my laptop screen: Bobbed, layered, long, short and everything in-between. I finger my own locks scrutinizing my reflection A pair of scissors in my hands, can they tame my hair’s insurrection? My husband walks in, the blades poised inches from my head “Everyone says it’s pretty and it’s not just because it’s red.” I waver in my resolve and hesitantly put the scissors down, “It’s true” he adds, but I continue to frown. It is pretty, I hesitantly agree However, it is becoming too much for me. I decide to sleep on it and find my mind consumed. Cut it? Leave it? I just want to look well-groomed. Tossing and turning, I am fully awakened by a voice “Fear not my friend, in your hair I can help you rejoice!” Recognizing the voice of my father-in-law I roll over, feigning sleep “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” his voice is loud and deep. I open my eyes and find I am no longer in my room Hairspray and permanent solution create a deadly fume Somber faced, Mike speaks from a barber chair “Did I ever tell you that I used to cut Suzanne Somers’ hair?” As usual, before I reply his story continues on “Now I just cut the family’s hair, Vanessa, Glenna, Uncle John. My scissors are getting dull and my eyes are a little dim, But my style is impeccable, my margin of error slim. Your hair is beautiful, in need of only a trim You’ll see me at Thanksgiving, I’m sure I could fit you in.” I clutch my ponytail cautiously, not willing to consent, But he waits patiently for me to repent. His days as a Vegas stylist continue to unfold His customers’ hair was daring, outrageous, bold. They each parade past me with their aged hairstyles I kindly applaud; the line goes on for miles. I clap and I clap as Mike continues to narrate, “This one’s a beauty, it take 10 hours to deflate! But, the next one is my favorite to date, The beehive is something I am always willing to replicate” He sends me a wink as I grimace inside, I want hair in which I can at least have a little pride. As the procession comes to an end he slowly advances, His scissors are ready, a slyness in his eyes dances. The checkerboard floor begins to spin, I have a feeling that this is a battle I may not win. Writhing in my covers, I awake in a sweat. Hair should not cause one this much fret. I call a salon, indulging my vanity Perhaps donating my hair will bring a little sanity.