Maybe I should see a trained professional

Maybe I should see a trained professional

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.
Editor’s Note: My father-in-law actually was a hairstylist and I almost did ask him to cut my hair, but I didn’t have the patience to wait till I saw him. I’m sure he would have done a wonderful job though.

4 thoughts on “Maybe I should see a trained professional

  1. Into every one’s life a little hair must fall. My brother use to think it was the water that made it grow, so after every haircut his hair was continually wet for weeks. Hats are good this time of year, and remember that you have to pay money for this identity crisis.

    Alas, it will always grow back, if you let it. Having it short is creative, easy, and you might like it. The fun thing is that Cooper will not recognize you at first. Don’t let it hurt your feelings. I’m sure we all could care less if it is long or short. Even though you have external beauty, it is your internal beauty we appreciate the most.

  2. I love reading your stuff. You are so talented. And yes, I can relate, I wish I had beautiful red to help me hide my mistakes. I’ve always loved your hair. The image of you cutting your bangs while singing “Wheels On The Bus” makes me laugh.

  3. I know you aren’t seeking compliments, but I have always loved your hair AND how you do it. I am not good at doing hair, but I sure wish I was. I enjoyed your poem.

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