Here we are, my sister and I, on some Christmas morning back in the previous century. See our long, curly, thick hair? The saying is that the grass is always greener on the other side, but I always thought we had the very best kind of hair. Who wouldn’t want hair like this?
Modern women, that’s who.
Now my hairdresser has straight, choppy hair with green and blue bits on black. She listens politely when I tell her that I like having my hair cut to bring out the curl, but her entire salon is full of products to make hair straight, so of course she can’t go along with this. She also sternly tells me that she is going to cut a lot in the back of my hair because, she says as she hefts my hair, “It’s very thick here.” She frowns when she says this, and says “thick” as though she were telling me that my hair is fat.
Yesterday I persuaded her, by dint of much serious talk and gestures demonstrating how I behave when my hair falls in my face, to cut a bit of layers in front. My hair is old now, like the rest of me, and when my hairdresser tells it to be a long straight swoop in front of my face it obeys.
“Let me just see if I can stop this cowlick here,” she says, reaching for the lovely wave at my temple (we see it differently). I stop her.
“I think if it were a little shorter it would curl up and out of my face,” I say. She gives up hope.
She did a little cutting. “It won’t be smooth and straight if you don’t use a blow dryer and a flat iron,” she chides me.
I assured her that I had neither the skills nor the equipment, but that I wouldn’t hold her responsible.
Today I have worked for 12 hours — and not coincidentally had the most absolutely turquoise day ever with 1326 steps — and yesterday I did 7 hours after 7,824 steps, church, and my haircut (okay and I also took myself out to lunch). So it should be no surprise that I haven’t washed my hair or done anything to undo the style she gave me yesterday — smooth and straight.
Tomorrow I’ll wash it and see whether it returns to what I think of as my normal curliness.