TheBanyanTree: I got a haircut

[Monique Colver]

I got a haircut today. This is a momentous occasion in my life because I so
seldom get haircuts. I like to wait until my hair is so long that the sheer
weight of it keeps my head tilted backward, so when I walk I'm looking up at
the sky. The sky is pretty, sometimes, and I like to take a look at it. By
that point my hair spends most of its time gathered and twisted, and a hair
implement, which also doubles as a toy when I'm bored, secures it to the
back of my head. This is because I have crappy long hair. Excuse my
language, but it's late, and it's the truth.

When it's time to get my hair cut, my husband convinces me that it'll be
okay. It's not that I mind getting my hair cut. It's not that I want it long
and unmanageable and prone to laying like a dead thing on my head. It's just
. . . there's so many other things I mean to get to, which I don't, and
getting my hair cut falls to the bottom of the pile. It's the default
location for my hair. And my wardrobe. And stuff that makes me look pretty.

I don't make an appointment for my haircuts because that would involve some
sort of semblance of planning ahead, another thing I prefer not to. What if
I get up on the day of the appointment and I just don't feel like it? What
if I feel like it on a day I don't have an appointment? I'm more of an
impulse shopper when it comes to my hair. So this morning I got up, and I
went to Fred's house. Last weekend Fred was up the whole time I was there,
playing with his PlayStation with a lighted cigarette on the bed next to
him. While he's on oxygen. I realize this is not a good thing, but it's not
as if he was actually smoking the cigarette. I think he's really given them
up, now that he's dying from emphysema. Maybe he just likes the smell.
Anyway, he was calm and happy playing with his PlayStation, so I gave him
morphine and a pain pill, and let him play. This week he was asleep the
entire time I was there, so I sat in the living room and I read, and I made
a to-do list. Haircut made it on to the list, somehow. Maybe because this
morning, when I brushed my hair, the whole length of it looked like
something I should beat with a stick, if it approached me in a dark alley.
Maybe I'm just tired of having to twist it up and back just so I look
presentable. Fred's wife came home from church, and once relieved of my
duties (which were pretty insubstantial today, but it makes it possible for
her to go to church, and that's really all that matters), I headed home.

I walked in and demanded of my husband, "So, what's the plan?"

I'm like that, all demanding and annoying. That, and it was lunchtime and I
was hungry. We usually go out on Sunday for lunch, our one day off together,
and sometimes we amuse ourselves afterwards by checking out odd Portland
sites. Or going shopping. It depends on the weather. Today was a nice sunny
day, so, armed with a gift certificate for McCormick & Schmick's that needed
to be used, we headed for their waterfront location. I was mostly interested
in the crap and shrimp tater tots with the jalapeno tartar sauce. They can
call it an appetizer if they want, but I can eat just those and I'd be
happy. After lunch we headed for Penney's, which happens to have shirts on
sale that 1) fit me without making me look like I'm 8 months pregnant, and
2) are on sale. These are obviously things I can't pass up. And in the mall,
right outside Penney's? Trade Secret. In July I had a haircut at Trade
Secret in San Diego, another walk in when I realized I had a wedding to
attend and my hair hadn't received its own invitation, and that had turned
out relatively well, so we gave it another shot.

I had to make an appointment and wait 15 minutes. This gave me ample time to
peruse the merchandise, which was no doubt what they were hoping for. I
picked up a bottle of something called "Trauma Relief," and I asked Andrew,
"Will this help with my psychic trauma, or is it just for hair?"

I sampled a tester of moisturizer, wondering if it was for my hair or my
skin. It smelled good anyway. I picked up a container of something called
facial mask, and I said to Andrew, "I wonder if this works as well as the
paper bag with the eyeholes I cut in it." He told me I was going too far
with the self-deprecation, which would give me reason to think he doesn't
"get me," if I weren't so sure he does.

At last I got in to the secret back room, where the chair of destiny awaited
me. Like I said, I don't do this very often, so my perspective may be
skewed. I took out the thingie holding my hair to the back of my head and
the stylist looked at it, ran her fingers through it, and said, "This is
going to cost you."

Okay, she didn't really say that. I was embellishing for effect.

She did, however, ask what I wanted to do with it. I replied in my usual
helpful manner, while holding up a handful of my hair, "See this? It needs
to be fixed."

"Okay . . . how much do you want cut off?"

I held up my fingers in what I thought was about an inch of space and said,
"This much."

Apparently I don't measure well, because she responded with, "So about three
inches?"

"Sounds good," I responded, because I really don't have any idea what would
be a good thing to say to these questions. I mean, seriously, do I look like
someone who knows what their hair should look like? Do I look like someone
who takes any interest in their hair? Not really, so I'm always flummoxed
when they seem to assume I have a clue.

"Want it layered?" I remembered this term from previous haircuts.

"Yes! That usually seems to work out well!" At last, an answer I think I got
right. I was quite pleased with myself.

I was directed to the sink, where I forced my head backwards until my spine
snapped. The water was a tad bit hot, as in scorching, but when she asked if
it was okay I said, "Sure, it's fine," and then wondered to myself why I
said that. I don't know why. I just did. It just happens. But my scalp
adjusted and I survived.

I like not having to make conversation with the stylist because I'm really
bad at it, and I spend most of my time explaining that I'm really bad about
taking care of my hair, as if they couldn't tell. I tell her this sort of
neglect extends all the way to changing my name to my married name, which I
have yet to do. Oh sure, some people know me by my married name, but not
necessarily the US Government or the people who handle my money. I'm like a
double agent without an agenda. The stylist told me it took her three years
to change her driver's license, so I didn't feel so bad after that.

The stylist took pity on me and avoided conversation, and instead hummed to
the music playing overhead. Fortunately it was alternative, so I was happy.
I like it when people hum to me. It relaxes me.

The cut itself doesn't worry me. Whatever they do it, it's bound to grow
back again. It's never worse than when they started, after all. After the
cut she put great effort into styling it, which makes me wonder if she's
trying to hide something.. Like a bad haircut, and once I get home I'll
realize it. But I'm still not that worried.

When she finishes with my hair it's much shorter. And it's nice. It's
pretty. I look like a dork, but since that's my normal appearance I can't
really blame the stylist. I tell her I'm very happy, which makes her happy,
though not as happy as a tip. And I go home, happy to have had that task out
of the way. My hair can relax for another 5, 10 months now. And so can I.

Monique

-- 
Monique Colver