A Hairy Story

A friend at BSF today smiled and said, “You got your hair cut!  It looks nice!” 

“Thank you,” I replied, and left it at that.  But there’s more to the story.

Sometime around 2006-ish, I started cutting my own hair.  It was a revolt, since I’d spent my life (since junior high school at least) battling straight, fine hair, forcing it to curl or pouf or hang just so – to hold an imposed form and NOT MOVE.  I’d rolled, ratted, permed, ironed, and sprayed it, depending on the decade, in an attempt to fit the vogue.

Then one fated day I decided there was more to life than hair.  I didn’t care anymore, and said “enough” to the absurdity of it all.  The trusty pendulum swung from one extreme to the other. After searching for styles that might actually fit my hair, which falls straight in every direction from the crown, I finally found a sketch of such a hairdo online: a do-less do.

It’s great. Styling my hair in the morning is a snap. The day might bring a play date with grandkids or a wedding – my hair doesn’t care. I don’t mind if it gets windblown because it falls back into its own style. “Au naturale” is the way to go.  It just took me over half a century to figure this out.

How do I do the actual cutting, you ask? Especially in the back?  I don’t have a good answer.  I’m cautious and work slowly with a mirror, so a cut takes awhile.  Otherwise, it’s trial and error.  After more than 6 years I still make mistakes, but they’re small compared to earlier ones.

There are pros and cons to doing your own hair, but the pros are crystal clear: you can’t blame someone else if you don’t like the cut; there’s no need to make an appointment in advance, interrupt your day, and drive somewhere (in other words you can schedule at your own convenience); and it doesn’t cost anything.

Sometimes I think I should give up, act like a real 21^st Century Westernized woman, and treat myself to a salon cut.   But then I think, well, I’ll probably end up tweaking it anyway – trimming a bit more here or there to suit myself – so why bother?

I realize it’s inevitable: eventually I’ll succumb and find a hairdresser.  My back already gets tired when I crane over my shoulder to see the back of my head, and I’m not getting any younger.  But for now when someone says, “You got your hair cut,” as in the case this morning, I don’t correct them.  

It's fun - my little secret.