Wednesday, 27 June 2007

Cut off my hair and call me shorty

I’ve been shorn. I didn’t mean to come out looking like a bloke, but staring back at me from the mirror is someone with No Hair.

Himself hates it when I go to the hairdresser as he likes my hair as long as possible. He said, ‘Don’t have it cut – I love it like a gooseberry bush.’

I think you can probably guess the gist of my reply, and as I was feeling fed up with the endless rain which seems to have seeped into my head, rendering me incapable of writing anything likely to earn me any money at the moment, I thought I’d be adventurous. My confidence seems to have been washed away by all this wet stuff, and I needed to cheer myself up. That's what Himself suggested, anyway.

Jill, my hairdresser, looked at me and narrowed her eyes and said, ‘how about going shorter? Much shorter?’

I should have realised by the word ‘much’ that she had Drastic Measures in mind, but as I trust her and she does cut my hair well, I agreed. Soon we were talking about her upcoming holiday in France, when she and her husband are going round France on motorbikes for 10 days. As she’s the same age as me (fast approaching 50) I think this is terrific, and I’d had to remove my glasses as she couldn’t cut my hair with them on, so I couldn’t really see what was going on.

Twenty minutes later, I looked up blearily and thought Oh Shit. I put on my glasses. That was worse. I looked down at the floor and saw a mass of dark curls lying like dead commas on the floor. Oh My God. I summoned a smile and said, ‘Thanks, Jill,’ in a breezy, this-is-fine sort of way and got up. More lifeless curls hit the floor. I stumbled towards the desk, paid and drifted out, feeling faint. And cold around the head.

The arrangement was that I’d ring Himself when I had finished in town so he could pick me up in order to walk the dog.

‘How’s the hair?’ he said.
‘It’s rather short,’ I said, falteringly. ‘As in, Very Short.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, if it’s too short I’ll drive straight past. Me and the dog will go somewhere else.’
I laughed as if I knew he was joking (was he?) and went outside to wait for him. Just in case, I put my hood up.

When he picked me up, he pulled back the hood, then looked at my face, by this time ashen I would think. ‘Not much you can do about it now, Flowerpot,’ he said. ‘Anyway, don’t worry. It’ll grow.’

Which is what I keep telling myself every time I look in the mirror. How long before I stop looking like a boy? Do I buy a hat? Get hair extensions? Hibernate? What shall I do?

When I told Himself that I was having problems writing (work related stuff) this week, he nodded thoughtfully. ‘You need some time off,’ he said. ‘You’re probably like that fellow – who was it - who lost all his strength when he had his hair cut?’

‘Samson. Thanks, darling.’


Akelamalu said...

Oh it's terrible when your hairdo isn't what you wanted! Pretend to everyone that you really wanted it like that and you may believe it too! :)

Cornish Dreamer said...

I'm sure it's not as bad as it sounds FP! And it's true, your hair will grow back quicker than you think!

I hope that it actually helps with the writing, and doesn't put you off!


Elaine Denning said...

I went from boob length hair to having it so short it was shaved at the back, when I was 30. I know how you feel!

Get some wax, tip your head upside down, and rub it all over the place, in every conceivable direction. Don't even check it in the mirror. It'll look wonderful!

Flowerpot said...

many thanks for restorative comments. Am trying not to think about it too much but might well try the wax idea. Can't make it any worse. Though in this weather, I think a bobble hat might be in order...