“I hate hair!” My dad, with gorgeous curly hair, said this for years before embracing the buzz cut. I’ve said it for at least the last ten years. I never really knew what to do with hair so it was always a nuisance. It was always long, and as soon as I mastered it, always french braided. Oh, the idea of hair was all right, but I hated it in my face, hated it on my neck, hated it on my forehead and hated it on my back. I always think of hair as hot, clammy, and fidgety. I never found a style other than a french braid that would keep it out of my way so well and I never found a style (comfortable or otherwise) that seemed to make any difference in how “pretty” I looked or felt. I don’t know why I never cut it. Long hair seemed more feminine, somehow and with it long I could french braid it away! Hair is a nuisance. As such, I didn’t want to spend any more time or money on it than absolutely necessary. I went to random cheap chains for infrequent trims. Salons are chatty places. I am not. I occasionally make an effort, but on one occasion it proved disastrous. “I hate hair,” I told the stylist. “I just don’t know what to do with it!” Her silence should have silenced me, but I was warming to my subject. “I’m just waiting for bald to become trendy. I’d shave it if it wouldn’t kill my husband.” I didn’t go back to that salon.
Mr. Oddly Genius always said he liked my hair but perversely refused to give any preference about how I arranged it. (I feel so Jane Austen saying that!) In all our years together it never seemed to make a difference what I did – he really didn’t care. As I said recently, “It’s nice that you really don’t notice or care if I leave my hair a mess, but at the same time it pains me that you don’t notice when I put extra effort into it. I suppose it is a good thing since I rarely do much with it.” As you might imagine, he did not respond to that comment!
I’m sure you can see where this is going but I think we all know you’ll finish reading it anyway. After the Mole was born I lost massive amounts of hair. It was both depressing and disgusting. I can’t understand how it didn’t destroy my vacuum as perfectly as it destroyed my self esteem! In any case, while I was acquiring a luxurious pregnancy mane during the Cucumber’s gestation I determined that I wouldn’t put up with the horrors of hair loss again. “If I must lose fistfuls of hair, it might as well benefit someone else!” I said. I decided I’d donate my (now very long) hair to Locks of Love a couple of weeks before delivery. I went to a private but not extravagant salon that I had visited once before. She was nervous about cutting off so much hair, especially when I said I’d never had short hair. But I assured her that I was convinced nothing could be worse than losing all that hair onto my floor. She gave me a simple bob and packaged up a long ponytail for Locks of Love. I headed to a baby shower feeling surprisingly “whatever.” I’ve read stories of women cutting their hair and feeling a loss of identity or other assorted traumas to their psyche. I had wondered if I would have a surprise feeling like that and when I didn’t it seemed to prove my general antipathy toward hair. I hadn’t told very many people so it was fun surprising everyone – my own cousin didn’t recognize me! Everyone raved about how much less time it would take me and how cute it was. They were wrong and right. A french braid is very fast and mostly forgiving. A bob has to be blow-dried just so (with accompanying goop). But for the first time in forever I did feel cute. It’s a huge shock to me! Now, I’m not fishing for compliments and I didn’t say I’ve always felt like an ugly duckling. I’ve just never felt very pretty or cute. And it has always been mostly okay.
We now (finally) come to the pickle of the post: Do I keep my happy bob and see if it keeps me happy? Or do I grow it out like I promised the self-described “man who doesn’t notice physical appearance?”
