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.