Letting My Hair Down

Hair is beginning to show up in my life. I’m now vacuuming it off the rug. I’m wiping up wisps coiled on the bathroom counter. During a slow moment in my writing group I’ll look down to find a half-circle on my sleeve.

I can’t blame the cat. He went to that golden napping spot in the sky last September. Also, he was all black except for the white spot on his belly. He didn’t use my brand - Excellence 8G, Golden Blonde.

Bottom line, I haven’t been to the hairdresser’s since the middle of September. Now that it's getting longer, I guess I’m going to have to re-learn what it’s like to have hair long enough to clog the drain.

This wasn’t really a conscious decision, more a result of inertia.

I did get it cut the week before we went on our trip to Italy at the end of the summer. The idea was that I’d have something easy for travel. The reality was that since I didn’t like the cut very much, when we finally staggered back to the hotel room, instead of collapsing on the bed like any other sensible tourist, I was in the bathroom fiddling with my hair, trying to get presentable for dinner.

We returned, and I pretty much just went from day to day.

October passed.

November arrived. I went in the bathroom and lopped a good two inches off the back all by myself – and it looked pretty good.

November passed.

Here we are in December and if I work a little magic with hair spray, I can still see where I’m going.

But I did call the salon and make an appointment with Albert on the 30^th. We’ll see what happens. Albert has a tendency to give me the Mature Lady #12 haircut. You know the one. Every woman over 60 has it.

And it’s probably not helpful that every time I’m sitting in his chair, he remarks how similar my hair type is to his mother’s. (She's in her 80s.) 

Another issue is that he’s been my guy for about 15 years.

Divorce would be a cakewalk compared to the guilt of finding another hairdresser.

I’ve always wanted to be one of those elegant women who spin their glowing grey hair into a sophisticated French twist. Unfortunately, I will never reach this level of urban chic. When my hair was long enough to attempt this, it either came crashing down or gave me a headache.

Additionally, since I come from a long line of red-heads whose hair turned a sickly yellow-grey, at 82 I will still be shopping in the CVS hair color aisle

So what’s my hair wish list? Hair longer than my husband's, but:

*The ability to pick something up off the floor without a mane in my

   face.

*The ability to dine in the outside seating without being

  Heimliched because I’ve swallowed my hair.

*A hairstyle individual enough that my husband can find me in a group of

    60-something women.

    (Since I’m now a blond like every other AARP female,

       the poor man already has enough trouble spotting me.)

*A style that accommodates both my wonderful malleable

     winter hair and my evil Lil’ Orphan Annie-like summer hair.

                                   Wish Albert luck.