I got a haircut yesterday. I brought in a picture of Salma Hayek and came out, well, not so Salma, but definitely an improvement. Now, the only thing I have in common with Salma is height and a square face. I don't have the figure, the cute nose, the exotic skin, the amazing eyebrows, the luscious lips. But her hair is black and mine used to be. So I decided we were the same type. Small, so no overpowering hair. Opinionated, so I needed an opinionated hairdo, something with spunk.
My hairdresser evidently thought spunk was going too far, but I can always hack on my hair a bit and make it more like the photo. I deliberately took the photo back with me. I am not giving up on my Salma. No way.
The funny thing is, this hairdresser is only four years younger than I, and she finds it perfectly okay to give herself too young "dos" and color her hair caramel in a desert. So why can't I have something a little goofy? Being in the hands of a hairdresser is like reverting to babyhood again. And that is not a really comfortable place for me. My first memory is looking in a full length mirror after my mother had cut hideous bangs on me, and hating her. Then, I got into trouble by cutting my friend's blond hair to the scalp on one side. So, let's say, I have issues. Serious issues.
But hair grows. My hair grows like a wildfire in Kansas. And I have my own scissors. I can take control of the situation. I am the mistress of my own locks. Well, almost.
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