Offtimes, Blessings Come in Odd Packages

I've never really thought of myself as a shallow person. Granted, I have my faults, but focusing on "thin" things has generally not been one of them. Superficiality has never been my particular nemesis, nor has appearance-related vanity. Which is why I'm a bit surprised to be writing this post today about something that is definitely a thing and undeniably vain. Yes, my friends, I am writing about my haircut.

The thing is, a good haircut is worth its weight in gold (which is practically what I pay for this commodity, by the way). But I find it worth every penny, especially since my hair started losing thickness as quickly as I wish my waist would...magically turning flyaway and gray at the same time. These days, to say my hair is just fine refers not to its being okay but to the new and completely regrettable texture. Seriously, it feels like every limp strand belongs to someone else, as if some form of elven thief came in the night and liberated me from what used to be a pretty nice head of hair! (One worthy of compliments, even.) The only comments I get today are no comments at all, which is actually something of a comment itself, when you think about it.

Happily for my state of satisfaction with life, I am still not vain. If I were, I would cry bitter tears every time I looked down at my shoulders to see a remarkable number of silver hairs lying there instead of on my head. Instead, I heave a small sigh and chalk another one up to the lovely aging process that seems to have taken permanent residency in my 57-year-old body. I then speak my favorite new word to myself (I know, talking out loud when nobody else is around constitutes another bad sign, and I definitely do say this loudly), "WHATEV!" (I'm really happy with the word Whatev, by the way, which manages to convey both mild disgust and cool indifference at the same time.) Of course, I'm aware there's also a touch of anger and powerlessness in the word, but I choose to focus on the first two attributes of its use.

Having said all that, I'm back to my thesis. There is nothing like a good haircut, and my stylist knows how to give one. Besides managing to cover a multitude of sins, it falls so perfectly that I don't even have to use a brush. I just blow it dry (which takes a LOT less time than it used to, the one upside to hair loss), and the silky strands (not limp, silky!) fall dutifully into place. What's more, they stay in place, even after I sleep on them (which I am now able to do for several nights before washing, courtesy of the new trait I forgot to mention earlier...extreme dryness). And the best thing of all? This marvelous woman cuts it the same way every time: perfectly. There's none of that one-side-being-longer-than-the-other, cowlick-suddenly-sticking-straight-up-in-the-air, or strange-little-spot-that-needs-to-be-hair-sprayed-and-gelled-into-submission stuff. Absolutely none.

Thanks, Linda! And Merry Christmas. You make my aging process a whole lot easier.

=)

PS. I'd admit here and now, in search of absolution, how much I pay for the wonder of this cut (probably less than you are imagining at this point) but my mom lived through the depression, and she reads this drivel of mine daily. Nuff said.

PPS. In other words, any price over Supercuts makes her cringe.

PPPS. But not me. Not any more. ;)