My attitude about hair length has come full circle.
When I was a wee one, my mom always had me get pixie cuts.
I HATED it. I wanted, nay yearned for, long flowing locks.
But my mother was adamant – as long as I was too young to take care of my own hair; it was going to stay short.
She told me, when I was older I could grow my hair as long as I wanted.
And I did.
High school on. I totally avoided hair cuts of any kind. My hair was a split-ended untrimmed mess. But, by God (TIDBI) it was long.
Entering my thirties, my mother started asking me if I didn’t think I was a bit too old for such long hair!
Can you imagine?
I finally gave in, somewhere in my mid to late thirties and got my hair cut. I had the hairdresser put my shorn locks into a box, which I sent to my mother with a note saying, “Happy now?”
Because that’s just the kind of bitchy child I was (and let’s face it, have always been).
Now I’m a fat old lady and I want my hair short, short, and shorter.
But then came the pandemic.
And then my wondrous hairstylist (who lives in Monterey but was renting a station at a salon not too far from where I live) decided she would only go to people’s homes.
Sorry, but our house is teensy, and there is simply no place to set up to get my hair cut where it wouldn’t be a major hassle; especially with my husband working from home too.
My hair is annoyingly long now. It has been a year and a half since my last haircut.
And tomorrow, I am getting my haircut. My dear friend Edie Kerr referred me to her hairstylist – who happens to work out of a salon nearby.
To say the least, I can’t wait.
Standby for pictures!