I got my hair cut today.
I have long, brown, straight hair. On the surface, it’s as boring as hair gets. Basic brown. Straight. Fine.
I told the woman who was cutting it–Super Cuts, this is how seriously I take my hair–it won’t behave once it’s short, I just want it to be short for summer so I can swim without spending the entire day with wet hair.
Nope, she was a professional.
Also a sweetheart.
She wanted to give me a haircut I would like. She was willing to spend as long as it took to talk about my hair to try to find the perfect hairstyle that would work with my kind of hair and she was sure she could merge some different styles–stacked, not layered, mumble, mumble, stuff I don’t understand, etc.–to give me a short cut I would feel good about. I was pretty sure that nope, short enough to swim without spending the day with wet hair was all that I was going to get and it wasn’t something to worry about.
Forty minutes later, she was muttering as my hair got shorter and finally she said, “yeah, your hair is crazy cowlicky.”
Ha. They all get there in the end.
My hair does long and heavy and straight really well. As soon as I try to do anything short with it, it does ‘crazy curly all over the place’ really well. This is not a complaint. I quite like my hair. But hairstylists wind up going pale somewhere along the way, once they realize that their straight bob has turned into a kindergartener’s chop job. I am pretty sure that there are piece of hair on my head tonight that are no longer than two inches (having had eight or nine or ten inches cut off) because my poor hair stylist so wanted to make it… at the very least! … even.
But it’s really nice for swimming.
In other news, I am days behind on my writing blog and this week has been really busy and R! R! R! comes home tomorrow. (All those exclamation points are just to show how I feel. I pick my boy up at the airport at 7:15 and then we’re going out to breakfast and oh my goodness, that brings me joy.)