Here, Hair

Honestly, all I can see in this picture is my big nose.

(I once had a little girl on the school bus tell me I had a witch's nose. I must have been a teenager at the time, and I took it as a compliment. Halloween costumes would be easy.)

Do you think it qualifies as a selfie if you take the picture with an inexpensive camera and don't have the ability or desire to post it immediately on social media?

I'm not fond of selfies, but there is a reason why I'm sharing this picture. Something is different about me. I can't quite put my finger on it...

Just kidding. I see it now.

Twice last week I woke up in the middle of the night worrying about my hair. The first time I felt anxiety about committing to something expensive and drastic and wondered if there was any way I could back out. The second time I woke up because I had accidentally set an alarm clock for midnight and suddenly felt pangs of sadness.

After 36 years of being natural, I had dyed my hair.

Last Thursday I spent four hours in a salon getting pampered, having my hands and scalp massaged and getting strips of foil plastered to my head and then being plopped down under a dryer that felt like it was possibly frying my brain.

And the end result after my hair was washed, rinsed and conditioned without the lifting of even one of my little fingers?

I couldn't tell a difference, and as I gazed at my damp, limp hair in the mirror I thought, Great! Just my luck! She chose a color almost exactly my own. I spent all that money and damaged my hair for no change!

But then things brightened up, and I recognized the lovely change, subtle as it was. It made me happy til I experienced middle of the night remorse.

It's not all-over color. It's not highlights technically. It's that ombre coloring women are going for nowadays, though without the stark demarcation you see on some ladies' heads. It should last a few months as it grows out, the stylist assured me, because I assured her that although I have been craving a change on and off for years, I balk against maintenance. Understanding this, she told me that a complete dye job would be a bad idea, especially since I don't have greys.

I don't? Ha!

Gosh, I don't know why I'm telling you about my hair. It's a slow writing week, sorry. But, after all, every little act of daring is worth celebrating, and mine just happened to turn out all right.

This time.

Don't look - my hair's invisible

The queen of the unnoticeable haircut, that's me.

I'm not good about going and doing pretty things for myself, probably because in my mind it still qualifies as an errand, and I hate errands. But I have known for quite some time that I needed a haircut, especially since the whole greasy, stringy, hospital hair fiasco.

But guess what? I like long hair; I like long, straight hair on me. Oh, yes, it's boring, unadventurous, and, no, I don't blow-dry it or style it or put any kind of texturizing, root-lifting, or shine-inducing product in it 99% of the time. My hair is stick-straight and unstyled but healthy. I have never dyed any part of it in my 33 years.

Some of you are sad for me. I feel it.

Worse in your minds, I'm sure, will be my confession that I make my husband trim my hair, since it is so straight and long. Yet, the time had come to pay a professional a princely sum to chop off the split ends and shape it nicely, and so I did.

But I quoted the wrong number. I said four to five inches, and the stylist heard six to seven. It didn't look like much when I held my locks up between my fingers. Maybe it's because my normally shiny hair looked so dull and dirt-brown in that salon mirror. Maybe I was feeling daring, because I had just refused highlights when every woman I know had advised me to try them. While leaping off the bandwagon of high-maintenance coloring, I tripped down the stairs of shorter-than-I-wanted discontent while getting chatty with my hairdresser.

When I got home my husband acknowledged that it was shorter than he would have liked, but he said it looked like it was professionally cut.

No one else noticed. Not one person today looked at me twice, speculating on that fresh look, that change. I took off at least five inches, people! My hair is layered to frame my face, and dammit! It's shorter by half!

I'm the Queen of the Unnoticeable Haircut, and I've known it for years. Each major haircut there are no compliments, no exclamations of, "Did you cut your hair? I like it!" My hair could grow to my feet and then a mad man could cut it off while racing through a public park with a pair of scissors. As he loped away cackling, my friends would all rush to my side and exclaim, "Hillary, are you alright?! What did he do to you?" I would point to my hair desperately, and they would all stare back with blank, uncomprehending faces until I told them to never mind.

I should have gotten those highlights.

I should have gotten my brows plucked, too.



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