The Straw

I cried about my haircut.  I should mention that this is not the norm for me:  generally speaking, I'm not a "cry over cut hair" sort of girl.  It's a testament to just how a mom can bleed out from a thousand little cuts.  I feel some guilt even blogging about this:  I haven't blogged in quite a while, and some really wonderful things have happened during that time.  I vow to blog about one of those tomorrow.  Somehow, though, it's the things that drag us down that end up unloaded onto the page, as if somehow this emotional retching somehow staunches the hemorrhaging. 

Back to the haircut.  My hair is ridiculous, which is to say that this particular haircut does not make my ridiculous hair look any more so than it did yesterday.  In fact, I would gladly have handed a pair of shears to any one of the ladies in my bunco group last night, in the hopes of finding some new aesthetic for which I am so sorely lacking. However, I have been growing my hair own from a Martina Navratilova "do" to something with more bounce for over a year.   And so I walk into this mom and pop salon with high hopes that Teri, my "regular girl", will be there to tame my flyaway mess and give me a bit of style for the holiday party week upcoming.  It was my only evening off, and I took advantage.  Alas, it was not to be.  Teri was absent, but in her place stood a perfectly capable black-smocked woman with scissors and a smile.  Rather than be horrified at her apparent glee, I went for optimism that this would be a great cut.  We sweep the "cape of protection" over my festive Christmas sweater and begin.

A moment of digression again, if I may be so bold - "optimism" does not in any way, shape, or form articulate exactly how I was feeling at that moment.  It was much more akin to "I've had it up to HERE!", or something along those lines.  What any sane woman would have done in this moment was to respectfully ask when Teri will be pack and then set an appointment.  Not me, no, no, no.  I waved around my head, said the world "clippers", then took off my glasses to hope for the best.  Idiotic right?  Naive to the point of being infantile, I know.  But to remember, I have fond memories of Teri in my head, and I am just so tired of being a cheaply colored sheepdog, so something must be done.

Which returns us, finally, to the tragedy unfolding in and around my chair.  I see some tufts float down and I think:  really?  Where did that come from?  But do I speak?  NNNNNOOOOOOO!  I just sit there in my utter blindness until she hands the glasses back to me.  And then, the moment has arrived.  I smile in the mirror to see . . . an entire year's growth gone.  Now I have had haircuts this short before; shorter, in fact.  But this was simply not the day to go renegade.  I just cried and cried and cried.  I cried about every tiny thing, every silly moment, every gripe, every cry, every disappointment that had led to this one watershed (and waterworks) moment. 

I'm over it now, although I dread the day at school tomorrow hearing my entire faculty say with one voice, " but why did you CUT it?  It was so pretty a bit longer!"  Ggggggggrrrrrrrr.     Friends, working moms, countrymen, lend me your ears:  IT'S NEVER ABOUT THE HAIRCUT.  The haircut is the straw, and whether the haircut broke you, or the yelling, or the grabbing 34 cans of Spaghettios off of the shelf, or screaming "I hate you" with the same mouth that they kiss you goodnight with. 

Cry, my comrades in arms.   CRY!!!!!!!!!!!  Then splash off, breathe, and jump back in.

On the upside, the haircut was free.