quirk #152

Haircuts.

I hate having my hair cut. Always have. I remember my Uncle Roland telling me, "If you don't like it, make a fuss." How old was I then, 4? 6? We lived in Minneapolis and I think I was going to Great Aunt Amy's Dayton's department store for a chic big city hair cut. I didn't like it. I made a fuss. A big fuss. Some people blamed Uncle Roland.

I don't like people in my space. I don't like to sit still. I don't like people fussing over me. I don't like leaning back into the sink, I don't like the smell of the shampoo, and I don't like the styling afterwards. I don't like paying all that money for something I could do myself. I don't like the way they cut my hair, and almost always come home in a snit and cut it more. Myself. My way.

So I had my hair cut today. It's been six months and I was quite shaggy. I mean, I've been chopping away at odd moments. Bangs in my eyes: snip snip. Too long in the back: chop. Feels dry: hack. Today I was walking fast in the mall and saw a hair place. Oh. I need a hair cut. How long will it take, how much? Right away, $31. Too much, I walked out. Went back, really needed a hair cut.

She had fake nails and raked them across my scalp. The shampoo had a strong perfumey smell. She said I had too much bulk, and she could fix that. Around my waist too? She snipped delicately and shagged ends expertly. There wasn't much hair on the floor. She recently broke up with her boyfriend because his mother was in all their business. She moved in with her grandmother. She was a full time student, community college, undeclared major,  and part time haircutter. Hurry up and get me out of here!

I came home and chopped off the back, shampooed out the shampoo, and combed it all back off my face. Whew, there, back to me.

I feel sorry for men. With your short hair, you must have to go quite often.