A couple years ago, I began to go to an 'up-scale' hair salon. Up to that point, I'd been using a beautician at a local chain salon, and I was always pleased with her. Then she had to go and have a baby. After a few bad (and one REALLY bad) experiences with another sweet girl at the same place, I gave up and began going to the new place. It was more expensive, but the beautician did a nice job, took her time, and made sure that I was pleased when I left.
Then came covid and nobody was getting their hair cut. My hair grew long and I needed barrettes to keep it out of my face. Tim liked it. I didn't. When I finally was able to get back in for a hair cut, I explained that Tim liked it longer and perhaps she could leave some of the length, but asked her if it was possible to trim it up a little so that it could be styled and did not hang in my face all the time.
"Sure," she said, and she went to work, and when I left, it looked okay.
But later, standing in front of my own bathroom mirror, I could not do a thing with it. I could not tell you exactly what was wrong, but it just wasn't right. No matter what I did, what product or tool I used, it just didn't look nice, and I simply assumed it was my own lack of skill. I've never had the time to be preoccupied with details like my hair.
I made up my mind. I was just going to quit worrying about that hair. I was done with it. I'd just let it grow and pin it back from my face. I made up my mind that I was not (and never would be) a stylish woman, and the best thing that I could do was to make peace with that little factoid about myself.
When my six week appointment for a hair cut came up, I just canceled it and bought myself yet another package of hair clips
Except that then, a virtual fund raiser had come up for the United Way, and contrary to what my children might think of my humor, when they were brainstorming local talent, an acquaintance said, "You know, I've got a friend who's pretty funny...." (And before you say one word, he meant funny ha-ha not funny strange.)
I received an e-mail asking me if I'd be willing to lend a comic hand. I said yes.
And then I began to fret about my comic hair.
Which is how I came to be sitting on my sister's front porch in the fading light as she cut my hair. She looked at it. "This is really sad," she said. "I don't understand what she was going for here. On this side she's got it deeply layered. On the other side it has no layers at all." She studied it. She said. "I'll do the best I can, but it can't really be helped. You'll just have to wait for these layers to grow out." And she combed and cut, and then it was done.
Today, Tim and I had a place we needed to be. I got dressed to go, and I did my hair without any real hope. I was surprised to see that it looked nice.
I had no idea that my sister had so many hidden talents, and this one is a biggy. It changes the dynamics of our relationship. I surely do not want to aggravate the woman who wields her scissors on my hair. I may have to start letting her win more often when we play Scrabble.