My Edward Scissorhands Haircut

I used to have a nightmare from time to time. In the dream, I finally took the plunge and cut off my hair and it was just awful. Not-going-out-of-the-house awful. Too-bad-for-a-hat awful. I'd awaken into the bittersweet angst of thinking the dream was real with the relief that yes, I still had my ponytail. Occasionally I would reflect on the meaning of this dream. All sorts of nonsense about hair being a metaphor for woman's power and sexuality. Was I going through some sort of crisis of confidence? In any event, I actually did cut my hair off in broad day light the week before we left. From shoulder length wavy thick tresses to a chic little bob. I felt free and sassy and liberated...the perfect send-off to this adventure in New Zealand.
The problem with short hair is that you must cut it every few weeks. In the past, I could go 2 months. Worst case - yep, the ponytail. Or a headband. Now, after 2 WEEKS, I get straggly.
So, on DAY TWO here in Gisborne, I conducted a very formal research project of asking any half-way coiffed woman where they got their hair cut. The hands down winner? Talking Heads. I ventured into Talking Heads and within two hours, had an appointment for a cut and color. If I'm going to take the big risk, commit salon suicide, might as well do it all at once. I scanned the salon and decided that there was only one "stylist" that probably was not a good fit. [Pardon me if that one stylist happens to stumble upon this blog. Doubtful as she didn't know who Barack Obama was. "I don't read the papers or watch TV" - was one of two sentences uttered during the scalping]. Of course, that's the person with whom I'm paired for the cut. Fate or a really bad coincidence?

I'll spare you the nip and tuck of the next 40 minutes. At some point, I realized this was a very bad situation from which I had no escape, save time. Time to grow out the spikes, wisps, frays and generally uneven longer-in-the-front-than-the-back mop that is too short for any type of damage control.

This hair cut is so bad...and I look so goofy...that if I were at home, I'd have serious issues about leaving my house. Equinox would be totally out. So would the Metra train. Client visits? Totally out of the question. I'm not even sure I'd go into my house of worship. It dries crooked and untamed and curly in the wrong direction. It flat irons uneven and lopsided and chic is now a distant memory.

HOWEVER....I don't care. I look in the mirror and smirk to myself - This haircut is so damn ugly. There is nothing remotely stylish about it, or me. I can't barrette it. Or headband it.A baseball cap is my only salvation, but it is too hot to wear one. So I do my thing. I walk around town and go into strange companies and community colleges and volunteer centres and banks and have conversations and present my credentials and am open, curious and friendly. All with this remarkably unattractive haircut.

This is new territory. Christopher Columbus the world is not flat. A complete breakthrough. Being able to be myself THROUGH the vanity and self-consciousness and not-put-togetherness has given me more space. The looking good straight jacket has been loosened.

But don't worry, I have an appointment next Tuesday with Claudette. Accordingly to recent survey reports, she's the real deal.