I did 2 scary things in the past 2 weeks. The first was the Mad-Hatster’s Coffee Cabaret (which I’ll tell you about later)… and the second was this:
I CUT MY HAIR! (as in… “off”… as in “short-short”… as in “all GONE!”)
You need to understand: this was SCARY for me.
The other day, I had 2 people tell me how “brave” they think Nick and I are… for deciding to purge our stuff, rent out our home and travel indefinitely.
“You’re so brave!” they said. And honestly, to me, it’s not brave. To me it’s simply a part of who we are. It’s a very “normal” decision for us. Packing up and/or purging my entire household… taking our kids out of school… hitting the road indefinitely… this seems “normal” to me… this seems “right”….
But cutting my hair off.… OMG!
Now that was scary! And it required much mustering of courage before I finally thought: “Fuggit!! I’m doing this!”
Because I have wanted SHORT hair for a long… long… long… time.
But LONG hair has kinda been a weird kind of security-blanket. I have had long hair (at various lengths and colours – but always long)… for all of my adult life. The last time I had short hair was when I was 10 years old and had my hair chopped off in an ill-fated “Lady Di” style… (and – call me creepy – but I still have the chopped-off pony-tail… complete with red bobble… from that time!)
Here’s the awkward kid-photo of me with the short hair (not looking very Lady-Di’ish, huh?):
And here’s the even MORE awkward photo of my manky old pony-tail which I have saved in a plastic bag for all these years!! :
So I had been pinning all sorts of inspiring photos of nice, short hairstyles on Pinterest (and I had been doing this for years, mind…).
And then, one day, I just kinda snapped. I drove to the nearest salon and booked myself the earliest appointment and announced that I wanted short hair “NOW!”.
I never imagined I would do it that way. I assumed that if I was going to eventually summon up the courage for The Chop… that I would do my hair-homework… and make sure that I booked myself a suitable stylist that wouldn’t make me look like:
- a tannie (for my American readers, this means “auntie” – think: florals and short, round hair)
- an ageing biker
- an egg
One of my relatives, upon hearing my decision to cut my hair proclaimed:
“Just make sure they don’t make you look like a butch lesbian!”.
Okayeee… then. bites tongue hard
So… I ended up going to this… kinda dodgy salon, close to my home.
Ironically… it seemed to be the salon of choice for ageing bikers – and they played 80’s rock music (loudly!)… “Love Bites” by Def Leppard played 4 times in a row! (no lies). The salon was decorated in somewhat garish maroons and shiny blacks… and the lady who was chosen to cut my hair (and again, I kid you not)… boasted a proud mullet. This was when the terror set in. I decided that she was definitely going to turn me into an ageing-biker-tannie-butch-egg (all in one!).
She issued me with strict instructions;
a) not to cry
b) not to comment until her work was COMPLETELY finished
And with that, the chopping began.
No luxuries in this salon. No sublime head massages… no free wi-fi… no steaming cups of cappuccino…
Instead, there were dog-eared posters… mullet-stylist (who chain-smoked between clients and who didn’t crack a smile once)… and Bonnie Tyler. And “Black Velvet”.
And I kept saying to myself:
“OMG! What am I doing? What have I done!!???”
Those who know me well… know that I’m somewhat (uh…) impulsive. To put it lightly. This was one of the times where I wished I had been more level headed and had planned this thing properly!!
To cut a long story short (no pun intended)… I actually quite liked the cut that mullet-lady delivered. She had heard my instructions (although I still think the colour is too dark – and not as pink as I wanted).
After she was finished I thanked her and started heaving somewhat of a sigh of relief….
That is… until… the ‘other’ stylist… a man who looked as though he’d just returned from a Def Leppard concert with torn stone-wash jeans and a ripped Bruce Springsteen vest… nodded approvingly at my finished hair and said:
“Very nice! You look like a pole dancer”
“A what??” I asked, turning towards him in horror whilst mullet-stylist tried to shush him and swat him away
“Okay… maybe not a pole dancer…. “, he admitted, “… I think you look like a porn star!”
“A porn star??” – I asked… searching for a paper bag to hyperventilate in…
“What? It’s no big deal… it’s a compliment!” he said (completely oblivious)… “And besides, a porn star is a step up from a pole dancer. Your husband’s gonna have a porn star with him in bed tonight, ha! ha!”
So… without further ado… here is a photo of my new porn-star hairdo: