Wednesday, September 29, 2010

To cut or not to cut . . . .

I have a hair appointment today.  I've told my hairdresser Kelly that I've been thinking of a change in the fall.  Well, fall has come,  and today could be a crucial decision-making day.

My gut tells me to just leave well enough alone.  Still, the idea of having her chop off these long locks remains tantalizing.

Generally what happens at my hair appointments is the zapping (highlighting) and the trimming.  Kelly introduced my former hairdresser, the late Joyce Campbell, to a different zap method about three years ago.  Since Joyce's passing earlier this year, Kelly has taken over my head.

Instead of using a (sometimes very sharp) crochet needle to pull clumps of hair through a plastic bag tied to my head, the new method involves wrapping the hair up in white paper strips and painting it with the coloring goop. 

After the timer goes off, indicating enough coloring action on the hair, Kelly instructs me to step over to a sink for a good washing.  Except for my neck thinking it's going to break while stuck down there on the porcelain sink edge, I kinda like this segment of each appointment.  

Those professional fingers do a nice massage job on my head.  Before my cousin Sue thinks I'm weakening in the massage department, I'll say that I've never been too modest about fingers running through my hair. After all, there's no undressing. 

On the rest of my body, however, there's a limit, and it's gonna stay that way.  Modesty is the best policy, I believe, and you're never gonna catch me in a massage parlor. 

Anyway, after Kelly washes my hair, I move back to the styling chair where she gives me yet another lecture on snipping away at different parts of my hair in between appointments.  It's just like the dentist chastising you because you let ten years lapse in between appointments.

You're sitting there, stuck in that chair, and you can't escape with any excuses.  Last time I visited Kelly, I took a proactive approach and started in with the verbal flogging before she did.  

"Okay, okay, I whacked in a few places, and you're gonna notice it," I told her.  

Well, the key word "gonna" was a misnomer.  Kelly had already noticed, and Kelly was all ready to start in on her lecture.

Sorta like Tony who has to keep coming to fix my lawnmowers.  I've been proactive with him too, offering for him to give me 40 lashes for being too rough with that big mower of mine.

I figure beating these people to the punch  lessens the pain and keeps me more in control of what could be a bad situation for my bad behavior.  

Hairdressers know when lay people should have the scissors at home well hidden.  They've got those expert eyes which will notice a hair or two out of place and definitely those clumps  "out of whack."  

Anyway, after I admitted to my scissors sins, Kelly moved in for the kill, giving me instructions on what to do if I insisted on homestyle whacking over the next two months.  No more than two fingers from the hairline, she told me, referring to a strategy to take when my bangs were driving me crazy. 

This is sort of like my mother's instructions from Dr. Lawrence:  only two fingers of wine, he tells her. 

Only problem is when the wine-ordering time comes, we have to think about whether those fingers are standing-up fingers or lying-down fingers.  On some days,  the former is more desirable in the wine-consuming department, and sometimes the same may suit me when I get mad at my bangs. 

I've been pretty good this time, and I doubt Kelly's gonna have to get mad at me for getting mad at my bangs.  I've pretty much left them alone. 

Deciding whether or not to turn her loose with the scissors today is more difficult for me to process.  There are pluses and minuses to either choice.

If I leave my hair long, I can pull it back out of my face and wear baseball caps without looking too stupid.  I also tend to wash my hair less frequently when it's long.

If it's cut, washing is the key.  I have naturally curly hair, which when short, gets messed up in ugly ways while I'm sleeping overnight.  And, when those unruly curls stick out toward Nellie's one day and toward Sally's the next, washing and blow drying is the only cure. 

I hate washing and blow drying my hair every day.  It's a nuisance, to say the least. 

Then again, if I gave Kelly the go ahead for a major cutting operation today, I could have a new lease on life for a while.  Kelly, who has short hair, reminded me that people often spend inordinate amounts of time "controlling" their hair. 

She maintains, therefore,  that short hair needs less control.  Of course, Kelly doesn't have naturally curly hair.

The more I think about this decision, the more I think I'll think about it.  Now, I feel better.  

Decision made.  

I'll think about making this major hairstyle move until next time. 

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