Swept from the corners of my mind…
I finally believe that spring is here, so this old gal’s mind is turning to a spring haircut.
I’m not the girly type. I don’t spend time on clothes or styling my hair or getting my nails done, and the “shoe” fixation absolutely baffles me. My big fashion statement is using hair chalk to add a stripe or two over the gray to match the day’s clothing. Cute. Cheap. No commitment. Works for me!
I seldom know the name of a hair style, but I do appreciate them on others. For instance, in one University course I sat by woman in her late 40s. She was smart, self-composed, and thoughtful, and had frosted hair. Of course, I had no idea that was what it was called, but I really admired how the blonde highlights blended with her natural browns and grays; It looked sophisticated. When it was time for my fall haircut, I decided to emulate her.
Poor students don’t go to fancy salons, so one afternoon I wandered down to a chain scissor shop and signed in. There was one young stylist working alone, and no other clients. We were alone in the shop. Settling in the chair I removed my glasses, effectively turning the world into soft fuzzy colours. My eyesight was so bad that without glasses, nothing past my nose existed. If it moved, it was a person. If it didn’t, I didn’t care. I settled back to get my new style.
Not knowing the name of the style, I told the quiet stylist that I wanted that style that has “little bits of blonde all over your head”. She agreed like she absolutely understood. The next question should have worried me.
She ask if I wanted the blonde “all over my head or in just one spot?” Say what? That would be weird. No, I want it all over my head.
Did I want it noticeable, or not? Well, if I am going to pay for a new hair style, I certainly want people to be able to see it.
Details worked out I settled back to my fuzzy world, and she begins working on my head. She combed something through my hair as my mind drifted. It wasn’t long before she said, “I’m just putting a light brown wash over it and we’re done.”
This was my first inkling that something was wrong. I may not have known much about styles, but as a product of the 70s I had read more than my share of comic books. In the back of almost every comic, right near the sea monkeys ad, was the ad for a plastic cap with holes in it that was used to frost hair. I was expecting that plastic cap and the feel of hair pulled through the holes that peppered it like sesame seeds on a bun. I was not expecting to feel something just combed through my hair.
Out came the blow dryer and curling wand, then she handed me my glasses. I slipped them on, expecting to see sophisticated young woman with blonde whisps scattered about my brown hair. Instead, I saw a platinum blonde stranger with dark roots. Speechless, I paid the bill and walked out, shell-shocked.
The next day my university friends kept telling me they liked it, that I looked good, and to remember that “blondes have more fun”. What I didn’t tell them was that I would be walk by a reflective window or a mirror and instead of seeing myself, a stranger would be walking in my skin. You don’t realize that you expect to see your own reflection until it’s not there. I avoided my reflection like a vampire in a fun house for the next two weeks.
Then I came home to PA to take part in a reining clinic and met my future husband. We fell for each other, hard. When I went back to campus, I tried to convince myself that the hair was OK, because I had snagged a really cool guy, so being blonde was more fun! But every time I glimpsed my reflection my stomach flipped and I felt nauseous.
There was nothing for it. Even if it scuttled my new romance, I couldn’t live with the stranger in the mirror. One midnight I went to Pinders, bought a box of hair colour, and brought back my plain brown look. On my next trip home, only two weeks after that first kiss, I asked him to marry my brown-haired self. He agreed (turns out blondes weren’t his favourite anyway), and 18 months later we tied the knot.
That’s how I learned that blondes have more fun, but brunettes are forever. Which brings me back to this spring haircut idea…
Honestly, what could possibly go wrong?
Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad. Her column appears every other Wednesday.
