I finally got my hair cut this weekend, and while most of you are probably thinking “what’s the big deal, it’s just a hair cut,” I had 15 inches cut off. It’s my third or fourth time donating to Locks of Love, and I’m feeling good about that, and my new do. I went from Ginger Spice (pre-weight loss and blondness) to Posh Spice in one hour. If I was a hippie-type chubby older sister to Ginger. And, okay, I’m not even close to posh or Posh, but the hair is! Let’s call it Ginger Posh. (Many years ago when the Spice Girls were big, one of my nephews loved to play with my hair and said I could be Ginger Spice. I told him I was really more like Old Spice.)
My hair was just past the-area-formerly-known-as-my-waist, so making the appointment for a cut was a scary deal. I relied on the thick curtain of hair to hide (some of) my wobbly bits, and feeling the weight on my back was like a security blanket. I actually remember my first hair cut, at about six years old, a matter of emergency as I had climbed up into my grandma’s pine tree and got so much pitch matted into my hair they had to resort to the blade. I had a page boy for a little while, but my hair grows incredibly fast and it wasn’t long before I was hanging upside down on swings and dragging my hair through the dirt again. I think it was really long, or styled and longish (some bitchin’ Farah bangs in junior high…) until late college when it was just too much to handle school, a baby and hair at the same time.
I was so nervous a couple hours before my hair appointment this time around that I was feeling physically ill. It’s been about three years since I had a bob, and I was worried my face would look different, or what if I discovered a heretofore unknown hump on my back? All the people, clients and stylists alike, exclaiming over my ‘beautiful long hair’ when I arrived at the salon didn’t help either. Gulp. Once the scissors slashed their merciless way across the pony tail, my stomach dropped down to my Converse dangling below the chair (my legs too short for the rail) and I was forced to stare at it curled up like a shiny russet animal on the shelf in front of me. Did it look liberated or resentful? I knew I wanted an inverted bob, but I wanted it super short in the back, kind of munched looking and dramatic, like a shark took a bite out of the back of my head. I learned this is called “texturing.” Be glad I’m not a hair stylist, eh? “This is going to look fabulous, darling! Just like a Great White chomped the back of your head!”
Once the drape was removed and my white glowing neck flash banged the world, I was very happy with the result, although I do feel like I should be pouting my lips out. To look posh. And I have noticed a bit of a hump below my neck between my shoulders, which I figure is a newly exposed wobbly bit. I hear the treadmill calling me, my Ginger Posh do, and all my bits for some serious mileage.