I love Diane, my hairdresser. We have the best conversations during my appointments, she always compliments my thick hair (a big self-esteem boost), and most importantly, I know I can trust her completely.
It’s a scary thing trusting someone with your hair. Boys don’t really understand, but you really do get attached to your hair as you grow accustomed to styling it a certain way, feeling a certain length when you comb it after your shower, and twirling certain strands when you’re bored in Geology class. When you sit down in that salon chair, you better have some faith that they will not cut your bangs too short, make your hair uneven, or decide they’re going to thin out your hair without asking. It’s a big deal.
I’ve been growing out my hair for about a year now, waiting to donate it to Locks of Love. I have the bad habit of getting tired and frustrated with my hair and what better thing to do than give to someone who really wants it? Seriously, there are people who would love to have “too much hair”. Some people just want to have hair. I’m not usually a daring person (I have my days), so cutting off 10 inches takes a lot of guts for me. I’m getting better at taking chances.
When I live in Provo, I go to the Paul Mitchell hair school because, well, it’s cheap. Sure it takes you 2 1/2 hours to get your hair cut by one of the students, but with the teachers watching every step, I have had positive experiences there. Not that it’s not occasionally unnerving to watch young women wielding scissors casually at your precious hair. “Exactly how long have you been studying? You doing well in your classes? Messed up any wigs lately?”
This morning I wasn’t scared. I walked into the salon, got my long hair washed one more time, and sat in the stool. Diane began to measure my hair, asking me about school and other things as she began to put rubber bands in my hair and measuring its length. Before I knew it, she was cutting the pony tail off. It’s like when a nurse is giving you a shot and doesn’t want you to freak out so she distracts you by talking until BAM, she’s jammed that needle in your arm. Smart tactic.
Goodbye long, unmanageable hair that took forever to take care of.
I wish my hair a happy second life with someone else. I wonder who will get it. I bet they’ll be as excited as I was to get rid of it. Life’s a beautiful thing.