No Helmet Hair Allowed
Have you ever crawled out of bed, taken one glance in the bathroom mirror and decided you need a makeover? I do that pretty much every morning, but a week or so ago I acted on the impulse. My hair was too long and I felt like an old bagger trying to look younger than my actual age. My hubby pointed out that if I this truly bothered me I’d quit coloring my hair. Funny guy.
Anyway, I decided it was time to chop-chop, and it had to be done before I chickened out. I opted to walk on the wild side and try a new stylist. My boldness led me to an aggressive, confident, funny and fantastic Russian lady with an accent thick enough to butter bread; but she knows hair, and in ninety minutes I was a new woman. Well, not new exactly, but me with better hair.
I was fed up with my old style—ready to be drastic—and would have allowed anything. Besides that, her cool accent held me in such thrall that had she suggested a buzz cut I would have nodded like a bobble-head. She nixed the suggestion of fully shorn locks, however, and with all the seriousness of Vladimir Putin addressing the U.N. said, “You have big cowlick in back. Short hair for you would be nightmare.”
Since I felt reasonably attractive and less like an old bagger when I walked out of her salon my money was well spent. My hair has a shape now, and she offered styling tips along with the cut. (“Light on spray or you will have the helmet hair, right? No helmet hair for you. Hair must move. It must move. You understand?”)
Yep. No helmet hair on this old bagger…um, I mean, mature woman.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m still an old bagger heading toward 50 with my hands gripping the door jamb and my heels dug in, fighting it every step of the way. I know I’ll eventually cross that threshold—next year, in fact—but, by God, I’ll do it with moveable hair. Moveable, caramel colored hair (thank you Hydrience #36) that in no way resembles a helmet.
Til next time –