Hair Cut Short, The Prequel

Me now. But also then. Except for the crow’s feet and the nasolabial folds. Also? My laser eye vision wasn’t fully developed.


I have another blog. I’ve had it since June, 2001. I will not name it, because San Diego Momma is my new leaf. And I want to leave old stones unturned. (I just love when I mix metaphors. It’s so writerly.)


Anyway, early in December of last year, my hair length shortened considerably. And I got to thinking: this has happened to me before. And darn gumbit, if it hadn’t. So, for kicks, I’m posting an entry from my “other” blog, the one that shall go unnamed, as it chronicles my first drastic haircut. And it’s kinda funny. Because I never learn.


(The below was originally posted in July, 2002)


“My hair’s been cut short.


No. I mean SHORT.


I now have short hair.


Will the tears never end?


With hundreds of (un-approved) snips by a new stylist, I am taken back 11 years to a time of askew layers, boyish lengths, and freaked-out ends which I tried in vain to grow out for YEARS.


That time is associated with low feelings of self-worth and voluminous quantities of mousse.


Did I mention my hair is curly, in addition to being short?


In one two-hour season in hell, I went from medium-length, straight, fine hair to a Gorgonesque explosion of SHORT ringlets and pincurls.


I gave a new stylist a try. She was an artist. She wore a raw silk sari skirt, and blue-lensed glasses. She worked out of a loft. She had Courvesoir in decanters next to the coffee.
And yes, I did say, “I’ll trust your judgment with the cut, but please keep the length.”


So, I’m understandably confused when I emerge from the salon in a bowl cut-type SHORT haircut with diffused curls, randomly sheared areas, and the entire top layer of my hair razored off, which may have resulted from my hairsylist’s apparent Salvador-Dali-infused fugue state.


So, I leave the salon, trying to muster a smile at my new FBI-approved Witness Protection Program makeover, and call Kevin to prepare him emotionally for the loss of his wife.


I describe the cut, best I can, noting that most portions elude description, and soon after approach my front door. Taped to the screen is a photo from last Halloween, with Kevin dressed as an alcoholic housewife, with the topper being a bad, frizzy, curly old lady wig. Under the snapshot is a post-it with the words, “If you look like this, don’t come home.”


So I sat on the front stoop, crying my eyes out, until Kevin opened the door and gently led me in.”


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