I don’t know if it is my way of preparing myself for the worst or if I am just plain nuts, but whenever I change something about my physical appearance, my anxiety starts to build before I even make the change.
A few days ago, in anticipation of my hair appointment today, I started Google browsing through photos of stylish short haircuts for women with thick hair. My biggest fear is that I am going to look older than I am. I already look older than I feel, since most of the time, I feel like I am in my twenties or thirties, but that’s different than looking older than your actual age.
I found a photo of a woman with a haircut which I thought would work for me and printed out a picture for my hairdresser. I’ve been telling her for years that I want to cut my hair short and she’s been telling me for years that I have to be careful because my hair is both thick and wavy. Unless it’s the right cut, I will end up with a version of an Afro or a bouffant (the teased hair that my Grandmother once wore.)
When I sat in the salon chair, I handed the picture over to my hairdresser. She examined it for several minutes and finally said, “I think we can do this. I think it will look good on you.”
Instead of getting excited, I suddenly felt as though my stomach had dropped through the floor. Anxiety-ridden thoughts rushed through my head. What if it looks terrible? What if my husband hates it? What if my kids now have more fodder to use when they feel like teasing Mom? Maybe I shouldn’t take the risk. Maybe it’s better to keep things as they are. After all, I cut my hair several inches in February. That should be enough change for now. Stop the presses.
Ridiculous. I know. I was the one asking her to cut my hair that way.
Another wave of craziness passed through me when somebody who worked in the salon began sweeping away an already huge amount of my hair just after my hairdresser began to cut and said, “Wow. Big change.”
I couldn’t read the tone of the comment. Uh oh. This was a stupid idea. And now it’s too late to stop the process. Too much hair has already been cut.
All eyes in the salon (it’s small, four hairdressers, each with a client) were watching my hair fall away from my head by the handful.
They must see the fear in my eyes. Everyone who catches my attention tells me that it looks great. That they wish they could do the same with their hair. I thank them but acknowledge that what they’re saying is to make me feel good. In other words, it is a nice gesture but not especially honest.
Well, now it is cut. I liked it. But it wasn’t dry and my hair poofs out when it dries. The hairdresser gave me some product to keep it wavy but not frizzy. And I went home.
For the first hour, I kept checking it in the mirror. I like it. I don’t like it. I’m so glad I cut it off. What have I done?
I texted a photo to my husband who texted back a thumbs up emoticon. He’s getting savvier and savvier the longer I am married to him. My thighs don’t look fat and my hair gets a thumbs up.
I’m still not sure what I think of the new ‘do, but since I can’t do much about it, I’ll have to make peace with it.
It’s kind of cute.
But the sides are pretty poofy.
But it’s kind of cute.
And, best of all, I don’t have to blow it dry.
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