I got my hair cut. The stuff on my head. Did you know the French make that distinction? Cheveux is what’s on the head and poil is what’s everywhere else.
As stress levels go, a haircut lands somewhere between death and divorce. If I was single I’d want great hair but no one’s going to date me if I’m dead. One problem is that I have an oddly shaped face: small, round from the front, flat from the sides. Another is that hairdressers rarely follow my instructions and when they realise their mistake it’s too late. So they style it like Justin Beiber, like a wall around my face and then ask me if I like it. I tell them I love it, scurry home and pray I don’t bump into anyone I know…especially that bitch from High School.
This time did not start out any differently. I showed her a picture and she said it wouldn’t suit my face. I told her I wanted long layers, that I was growing my hair out, and she cut two inches from everywhere. She somehow managed to style it big and wavy, something I will never be able to replicate, but there was enough of it left that I could wear it to my liking. A rare moment where I felt satisfied.
I took public transportation home. I looked around, catching a few eyes. I felt glamorous from the shoulders up but awkwardly underdressed. From the window I watched women pushing strollers, leaning on canes, carrying groceries and rushing to work. I thought, there’s some comfort knowing we all share the same stresses in life. Apparently we also share the same hairdresser.