I am a dangerous person. I have a pair of scissors in my
hand.
No, I do not run with scissors nor do I poke others in the eye
with them. This is far more ominous, friends. I am about to cut my
own hair.
I am a dangerous person. I have a pair of scissors in my hand.
No, I do not run with scissors nor do I poke others in the eye with them. This is far more ominous, friends. I am about to cut my own hair.
Trust me. This is not some frivolous whim; we girls do not take our hairdos lightly. From roughly age 10 we search for the most talented hair stylist the world has ever known. We believe the perfect beautician practices hairstyling as if it were a divine calling. Trouble is, divine callings will set you back roughly the amount of your monthly mortgage payment. Such financial fretting gives rise to yet another tutorial in Recession 101: the do-it-yourself hairdo.
With the economy icky (a highly-technical financial term), our nest egg that had been on a modest but steady incline suddenly plummeted southward like a stone. Sure, it found itself in lots of company, but dang. We reined in the spending and made cuts (OK, unintentional pun) where we could.
Now my baby boomer status means I’ve reached that “certain age” where my hair has developed a rather nasty, independent life of its own. First it was those “natural highlights” that kept cropping up at inopportune times such as when attending class reunions also attended by old heartthrobs. Granted, this problem has an easy, reliable solution: find a good colorist. Problem solved.
But then the natural curl I battled so hard against decided to go from stubborn to downright mulish. Styling my disorderly ‘do locked me into a losing battle where no amount of pulling and tugging would soften all that waviness that on other gals looks just great. Because the way I see it, my overall form is fluffy enough without adding curvy hair into the mix. And forget humidity. My best look has nothing to do with Bob Dylan, but that’s where I head whenever the dampness factor inches up. No, people, it wasn’t pretty.
Add to these obstinate hair characteristics the fact that a decent “cut and color” was costing more per month than the rental on my first apartment. I began to wonder if it was time to take scissors into my own hands.
So what if I did start cutting my own hair? I mean, it wouldn’t be like it was the first time. I used to be pretty handy with a pair of shears. People who knew me in 10th grade could tell you about the time my boyfriend, Ricky-the-Rat, decided to two-time me with that 8th grade hussy, What’s-Her-Name. Not that I’m holding a grudge or anything. Oh, no. The fact that I can relate every detail of that day right down to what I ate for lunch is sheer coincidence.
But I digress. The thing is, in the 10th grade, I had very long hair. And can you guess why I had long hair? That’s right. Because Ricky liked long hair. Yep: on that unfortunate two-timing day I grabbed my mother’s sewing shears and went to town. And, OK, such drastic action was almost certainly that form of behavior loosely categorized as “cutting off your nose to spite your face.” But the weird thing was my hair didn’t look half bad. And I’d figured out the power wielded by a simple pair of scissors.
So who knows? Taking the scissors to my own hair again could have all kinds of unknown, pleasant consequences. Perhaps a bit of unintended unevenness might be kind of … avant garde. People would stop me on the street wanting to know who did my hair. Heck, I could even have people clambering for lessons on my own brand of fearless hair cutting.
The convenient truth is I prefer a little shagginess in my hairstyle. If I had a “precision” cut, my unruly hair would do its own thing anyway so a bit of Rod Stewartish dishevelment goes a long way in my book. Besides, aren’t there scads of beauty products out there designed to mask a few slight imperfections?
For example: my most-detested commercial of all time was a shampoo ad. A perfectly straight-faced model posed before the camera and said in all seriousness, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” OK, we didn’t hate her so much as we wanted to straight out strangle her. Tragically, I’ve forgotten the shampoo brand, but you see where I’m going here. I mean, why stop with shampoo? With products to make our lashes longer, our lips plumper and our skin creamier – why, fiddle-dee-dee! Anybody can be drop-dead gorgeous.
Yes! With the right beauty products, some uneven locks of hair are no big deal, right? So next time you see me, don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.
Now. If I could only remember the name of that shampoo.
