Boo!

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I am struggling with a serious dilemma. No, it’s not “serious” in the sense that any lives or anyone’s livelihood are in any danger or that any attention needs to be paid by anyone outside of–well, me. But dammit, it is deadly fucking serious to me in the way that ridiculous, trivial, superficial shit can truly strike fear into the soul of a woman. It concerns…my hair.

Until early this year, my hairstyle was best described by the words ’short’ and ’spiky.’ It was cut with a razor and clippers. I kept it that way mainly for practical purposes; since my mother has to wash and style my hair, I figured to keep it as simple as possible for her. She gave me her blessing, though, and so I started growing it out. Ten months later I have reached my goal–my formerly forehead-grazing bangs now get stuck in my lip gloss and the 2″ long layer at the crown has at least tripled in length. At this point, I tend to look like the crazy bag lady downtown who used to offer to sell me her empty coffee cup every morning. (And as a not insignificant aside, my eyebrows are taking on a Bert-like quality as they slowly meet in the middle). I need my stylist.

My stylist–and good friend–who comes to my house on her day off from the salon to cut my hair and wax what is becoming more and more of my face as odd little black bristles sprout in odd spots (aging is GREAT, yeah?), has been waiting patiently for me to call her when I was ready. She has also been waiting out her pregnancy, which is supposed to end sometime today with the birth of little Jackson. Good for her…bad for my head. My timing, as usual, is impeccable: I asked her last Wednesday if she was still working. Last Monday was her last day.

And so, my dilemma. Do I wait for her to go back to work, or do I trust a stranger with my ‘do? In my normal homebody/shut-in/Unibomber existence I wouldn’t feel any urgency to get it done, but I’m facing down an event that is even more frightening than the prospect of strange scissors giving me a new hair style: high. School. Reunion.
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I am a strong person. Seeing people I haven’t seen in 20+ years I can handle. Seeing those same people reacting in shock to the sight of crippled me and my overfed ass stuck in my wheelchair I can tackle. Taking my brother as my date to this thing I can tolerate. But as God is my witness, I will not travel crosstown to that judgment fest with bad, shaggy hair. I have my limits.

There may be ’80’s nostalgia aplenty at this shindig, but there’s no way in hell I’m attending with Brooke Shields’ eyebrows…

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