Haircuts in Heaven
As I may have mentioned, I had a haircut the other night, my first in over a year. (I'm one of THOSE people who finds it rather silly to pay 30.00 to have an inch of hair cut off so....)
Alright, I'll admit it. It was WONDERFUL, and the results, while not a huge change, makes my hair look a lot better. My split ends had split ends you see. I'm a pony tail girl, since I look moronic with short hair, and can't leave my hair down near grabby 12 month old Rosalyn.
Sitting in that chair though, with the stylist yanking and pulling and blowing, I suddenly, vividly, remembered my mother. The small hair shop downtown if the little town I grew up in. Sitting on a board in the chair because I was too little otherwise. The smell of perm solution, hair spray, apple conditioner.
I'm sitting in this chair having my hair blown out, trying my damndest not to cry when it hits me. I'm not just one of THOSE people. I avoid haircuts because in my mind, it's irrevocably linked with my mother. Sitting reading trashy magazines while I waited for her. The girlishness I didn't realize then, of having our hair done together, what she likely felt was a right of passage for me. I never thought of these things then.
For a brief moment, it was like she was standing next to me as this woman lopped of my dead hair, whispering, it's all right. It's ok. We're still right here. We're still just two women together, trying to figure this shit out.
I stared at my reflection to try and see if that little girl was still there, under the years and the fat and the time. And she was. Sad and lonely and holding the cotton up against her hairline there she was, waiting.
I never appreciated, or even realized what those trips to the hairdresser might mean later on. I never stopped to think that some day I'd look back and wonder what my mother talked about as I played, if she told them about her cancer, how they reacted the the hair that was so quickly falling out. How she explained why she couldn't make more appointments.
Ironically enough, for a woman who was extremely vain about her hair, she ended up with a wig. A wig that only mimiced her wonderful, steely grey hair, her strength.
I think I'll make an appointment for Vivian soon.
Alright, I'll admit it. It was WONDERFUL, and the results, while not a huge change, makes my hair look a lot better. My split ends had split ends you see. I'm a pony tail girl, since I look moronic with short hair, and can't leave my hair down near grabby 12 month old Rosalyn.
Sitting in that chair though, with the stylist yanking and pulling and blowing, I suddenly, vividly, remembered my mother. The small hair shop downtown if the little town I grew up in. Sitting on a board in the chair because I was too little otherwise. The smell of perm solution, hair spray, apple conditioner.
I'm sitting in this chair having my hair blown out, trying my damndest not to cry when it hits me. I'm not just one of THOSE people. I avoid haircuts because in my mind, it's irrevocably linked with my mother. Sitting reading trashy magazines while I waited for her. The girlishness I didn't realize then, of having our hair done together, what she likely felt was a right of passage for me. I never thought of these things then.
For a brief moment, it was like she was standing next to me as this woman lopped of my dead hair, whispering, it's all right. It's ok. We're still right here. We're still just two women together, trying to figure this shit out.
I stared at my reflection to try and see if that little girl was still there, under the years and the fat and the time. And she was. Sad and lonely and holding the cotton up against her hairline there she was, waiting.
I never appreciated, or even realized what those trips to the hairdresser might mean later on. I never stopped to think that some day I'd look back and wonder what my mother talked about as I played, if she told them about her cancer, how they reacted the the hair that was so quickly falling out. How she explained why she couldn't make more appointments.
Ironically enough, for a woman who was extremely vain about her hair, she ended up with a wig. A wig that only mimiced her wonderful, steely grey hair, her strength.
I think I'll make an appointment for Vivian soon.
beautiful.
thanks!
Posted by
Anonymous |
12:23 p.m.
Somehow I think you're bonkers when you say you look moronic with short hair. Hey, if I can do it, ANYONE can do it!
Go Dor!!!
Posted by
Anonymous |
10:19 p.m.
I have the pictures to prove it. I look like a DORK with short hair.
When I was 17, my hair was so dead from dying and perming and other abuses that I said fuck it and shaved it all off. It being July and fucking hot helped as well.
Let's just say that my head is a wee bit BIG.
Posted by
thordora |
6:24 a.m.