Cutter

I leave work with a  bounce in my step, knowing that today is the day! I have time, I have money, I have a picture. All I need now is to find the right salon. I walked by it the other day when I was meandering around on my way to work, and I’m confident I will find it again. It was edgy, it was modern, it wasn’t a chain – it was perfect. I wander around for a few minutes, then ten, then fifteen, and I start to get anxious. I duck into a random salon and ask if they have any room for walk-ins today? The pretty receptionist says unfortunately no, and then dutifully tries to schedule me in for tomorrow. But I have no time tomorrow. And I want it now.

After three more salons and three more repeats of this situation, I’m losing hope. Google maps has failed me, my palms are sweaty and I’m trying not to show the irritation on my face. I slowly resign myself to the fact that I simply will not be getting my hair cut today, and I will have to live with myself until Saturday. I get on the train to go home and imagine all the different hairstyles I could have throughout my life…I wonder how long it will take me to grow my hair out again? I wonder if I could ever put up with extensions? And how is it that celebrities seem to grow their hair so quickly? These are the great questions of my life in those 20 minutes of transit.

I’ve realized lately that I’ve always been obsessed with my hair. When I was younger I refused to go to the hair stylist for ‘just a trim’. I always wanted to shock people so I had mushroom cuts, perms, pixie cuts, highlights, lowlights, even a VERY unfortunate Meg-Ryan-in-the-90’s-flip thing for a while, until finally I decided I had to grow it out. For my wedding. Anyhoo, after that it was long and luscious and I would refrain from cutting it for as long as possible. And then I would only allow one certain stylist to touch it. And then when I moved to Calgary, I would only go to expensive salons. I once paid over $200 for a cut and color (the color was dark brown, it was not complicated) and it wasn’t even that good. I was just a hair snob. Finally, enough was enough. The long tresses needed to go. It would be a symbolic cut, me literally shedding the past few years of my life to make room for new things. I was tired of being the girl who hair-whipped everyone in the face, who casually flicked my fringe in a way that said “I know you’re looking at me. I would look at me too.” Enough with the vanity – I needed a change.

After the first cut, lopping off about 4 inches (which I seriously considered keeping so I could later mail them to my friends to freak them out on Valentine’s day), I felt so much lighter! And I hadn’t had a breakdown. So another appointment was made, and I then had an a-symmetrical bob. I quickly tired of that…plus something happened I hadn’t really bargained on. I began to experience hair envy. I would see a girl casually walking down the street, her long luscious locks flowing in the breeze. I would have visions of myself sneaking up behind her and quickly chopping them off with some scissors I so cleverly had in my purse so I could find a wig-maker on the internet and be pretty again. The only way to combat this level of crazy was to, of course, cut it again. I wanted it shorter, with a shaved section this time, something a bit more funky. I was recommended a great salon in Sydney and was as happy as a clam. Weeks passed. Eventually it got too long, so I had it cut. But something was off, the shape, the texture (even though the stylist did exactly what I said). I had to get it cut again…and again…and again! Until my housemate banned me from getting any further haircuts, lest I go raving mad one day and shave it all off.

But there I was last night. Driving home from the train station, making a last minute decision to go to the local mall and buy some tights and dinner fixins. I knew there were a few salons in the mall, but I vowed to stay away. I would be fine until Saturday. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, shiny bottles of product in their neat, colourful lines caught my eye. The glint of light reflecting off steel chair arms and the smell of shampoo and blow-dryers pulled me in and within minutes I was sitting in a chair, talking to a woman who the years had not been kind to about what I wanted her to do to my head. I was taken to the back, where I relaxed as a mysterious pair of hands massaged my scalp. The thought crossed my mind that maybe I just like people touching my hair, and should possibly look into buying one of those wire head-scratchers to avoid salon fees. My stress from the week melted away and I sat happily watching my newest stylist snip away around my ears. After she was done I walked away it was all I could do not to run to my car so I could get home and stare at myself in the mirror, styling and adjusting and possibly instagram-ing. I know I have a problem and it won’t be long until it starts affecting my loved ones (ie. people are going to stop hitting on me because I will have no hair and no one wants to hit on the weird hair-less girl). But I like to think of it as a physical expression of me learning not to be such a control freak. For now all I can say is that I hope that my hair grows really really really fast (like a celebrity), because I just found a picture of this really cool hairstyle I’d like to try…

[Authors’ Note: I do not carry scissors in my purse]