About a year ago, I was feeling less than content with many things around me, so I took bold action. I got a haircut.
Haircuts and stylists are not minor things for me. I had the same stylist for 16 years in Boston, and would go back to him in a heartbeat if we relocated. (Write me for his name and number; I love sending people to him.) I had been in Seattle for 5 years, and had yet to hit the sweet spot. But it was clear that something had to be done. So, last October, I found a salon with high online community ratings, and called, pleading for help.
“I’m going to be 39. I used to model. I don’t work at my hair or much of my appearance, in part because I got lucky. On a good day, I like to think of myself as unconsciously casually stunning. But now I have a kid, no sleep, and thinning hair. I look sad, and I will try any sort of cut. And it needs to be public-good, as I have a high-visibility job.
“Okay,” responded the scheduler.
“And I live on the east side. But please, DON’T MAKE ME LOOK LIKE I’M FROM THE EAST SIDE.” In the caps lies the phobe.
The scheduler responded with confidence and kindness. “Oh, you need April.”
Let me say that April did a great first pass, then knocked it out of the park in May with Cut 2, which I have maintained. It has that kind of tousled, femmy, fun, I -just-had-great-nookie-but-you-should-see-the-smile-on-his-face look.
I wonder how many new mothers go through that same thing – the little ways we still try to keep that part of our lives or ourselves where we kick ass rather than acquiesce to dragging it.