Hair Stuff

I decided to cut my hair. Not too short, not too long, gentle layers, not that frumpy 40 something look you see in every grocery store. I even had a photo. No problem said my barber of thirty years.

Big problem. Nowhere close to photo. Way too short to do anything with. Far to horrid to wait out. I cried like a baby. I cried like a small child whose cat just got run over. I would not leave the house without a hat. Even the spouse, usually supportive, said it was really really bad. I looked much older, frumpy and silly all at the same time. Of course, the swollen red eyes didn't help. Some of it stuck up or sideways, some laid in sad clumps. There was a spot that was almost bare.

I went to another stylest. A young stylest at a young salon. She looked at my hair. She commiserated with me, then she fixed it. So, now it is short. Much shorter then I orignally wanted. I love it!

I learned from this that I have not grown as much as a person as I had hoped. The bad hair devestated me. I sort of observed myself being childish and overeacting, I knew my emotions were way out of porportion. It is after all, hair. Hopefully, there was some angst over other things I feel somewhat powerless about (Bush, war, gas, starvation etc.) mixed in the tears. But probably not.