Haircut

 

After months of avoidance, I finally sat myself down in a stylist’s chair for a trim.

My hair spends much of its life in a ponytail or clipped up, so there was no big rush and somehow I just let it keep on keepin’ on.

          The good thing is that there’s a fancy salon here in Florida that’s pretty affordable if you choose the lower tier of fresh-out-of-beauty-school stylists. I’ve found them all sweet, eager to please, and presumably up to date with whatever is going on in the hair world. I’m not too sure about my guy back home, who’s been cutting my hair for probably the last twenty years. I feel like he’s just phoning it in lately, but leaving a stylist you’ve been going to for a long time is fraught with pangs of guilt.

          The shop here is quite the enterprise, with an upstairs and downstairs and people bustling around. In the hopes of shaking off the old lady vibe and a matching haircut, I always try to spiff up my look a little when I go there. While waiting to be ushered in, I still felt frumpy next to so many reed-thin worker bees all dressed head to toe in black. Also in black, my hairdresser for the day Rachel smilingly led me to her chair. She had loose blonde hair flowing down to her ribcage, flawless skin, and one of her pants legs would likely be snug on my forearm.

          But I felt better after my trim, my hair all shiny and swingy. Noting that the bill was about what I paid at home, I left a nice tip for Rachel and turned to go. Exiting with me was a fit, early 60s woman in an outfit several notches above mine on the trendy scale, with long naturally gray hair that complemented her perfect complexion. I hope I didn’t bring down the tone of the place.