I got my hair chopped. Chopped as in scissors liberally snipping at my increasingly exposed scalp. A salon chair surrounded by little piles of my locks. And the white skin on the back of my neck revealed for the first time in years.
I went in for a “trim” and left with seriously short hair.
To be fair, there was an interim haircut between my longer hair and this pixie do. That haircut was a great tousled look, layered and funky. Friends commented on my “cute do” and offered how flattering it was. It was a change and a welcomed one.
Today I happily plopped myself back down in the salon chair with my outgrown hairstyle, fully expecting a return to that fun look.
I could tell things were going different than expected when I saw the stylist’s pointed shears angled farther and farther up the hairline, but I decided to see where this venture would go given my full faith in my hair stylist.
I followed her discerning eye as she pulled sections of my hair with a fine comb before snipping closely this way and that. Fun, flippy wisps of wet locks appeared.
She commented on the way the “line” of the hair was flowing and for once in my life I caught on to the lingo.
I did notice that the sides seemed a lot higher and that my long bangs were now short. It was definitely a different look, but what do I know?
You see, I’m not a hair person. I guess if I had gorgeous thick hair resembling a shampoo ad that requires a saw to cut through, I would worship my mane. But while I have a lot of hair, it’s baby fine. It’s no lion’s mane, even when it falls past my shoulders.
In my youth I pined for the dazzling photos of happy girls with thick, curly hair. I fully expected that the right hair cut or perm would accomplish the same for me. A bad bowl haircut and Mom’s sponge curlers with extra Dippity-Do couldn’t manage such a feat. Neither could the many perms I endured back then—that created serious trauma to hair and psyche. Poodle perms are never good for adolescence.
