Whims and Inconsistencies do Divert me I Own
Posted by Elizabeth on 08 Jan 2009 | Tagged as: My Life and Times
I have always taken a rather laissez-faire attitude with my hair. I have friends who revere their hairdressers as demi-gods, sink a fortune in shampoo, and have opinions on pomade. But not I. Excluding a brief adolescent interlude of mile-high bangs, I have been either too lazy, too late, or too indifferent to do much more than throw the mane up in a ponytail and forget about it. I have been scolded for this, but so it is.
I take the same approach to haircuts as I do my daily beauty regime (or lack thereof). Months separate my visits to a salon, and long stretches of my life have passed in which random people, none of whom carry a license, have been my sole stylists. I’ve even cut my hair myself. I have no fear; it always grows back. And never, excepting one tragic run-in with a pair of electric clippers, have I shed a single tear over my hair.
And so it happened that I was not mortally wounded today when I was told by an acquaintance in a not-so-subtle manner that my new haircut might not be the chic stylish coif I had imagined it to be. I had grown tired of my long locks and was ready for a change, so I went short. No, it wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but it never is; my expectations have always been constrained by the fact that I will pay no more than $20 for a haircut. So it was good enough. I had even been getting up five minutes early to shove in some gel and blow-dry the mess. And I had gotten some compliments: “interesting” was one of them, but other than that, they were strictly encouraging.
But not today. Today I was given the number for a really special hairdresser who knows how to fix hair that other people have messed up. She might even give me a discount if I tell her it was all a terrible mistake and I need her to save me from utter humiliation. Ok, it wasn’t quite that bad, but it was steadily heading in that direction. I felt like one of Jane Austen’s heroines (always a great comfort, when that happens), knowing that someone else was making an outrageous social gaff, and yet not able to find it quite as funny as I should. If I were Elizabeth Bennet I would have had the wit and vivacity to make some snappy comment, silence my interlocutor and salvage my crumbling dignity. But alas, I am not that Lizzy; I smiled weakly and took the number. I went home and laughed about it with my husband, but I’ve been avoiding the mirror all afternoon.
It’s a funny thing, vanity. You don’t know it’s there until it’s wounded. But I suppose I’m in good company; even Miss Bennet knew something of injured pride. The best thing to do, I suppose, it laugh it off as she did. But I can’t help wondering what the wonder-stylist would do if I did go see her…