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Star came over after she got off work, with a couple Styrofoam plates of Pad Thai and a huge purse containing all the equipment.
Star never did my hair when she was a beautician. It was Clippers, after all--I'd do my hair myself before I'd be caught at that place. And before that, I wouldn't have dared the months of embarrassment that could have resulted when Star was in cosmology school. Not that she was a bad stylist. I had no idea what kind of stylist she was, but that was the problem. I wouldn't have trusted my hair to such an unknown, not in my twenties.
The thirties are different, however. Three boyfriends later, the last one long term, the last one the one I thought I would marry, I just don't care about those things as much. After all, the boys don't seem to care. After you've been with someone so long, after he's seen you without your makeup, seen you in your jogging pants and slippers, seen you with that hair unwashed on a four-day camping trip, after you've dropped ten pounds or bought a new set of earrings, put on your heels instead of the ankle boots, you realize that most guys are blind to a woman they already know. I'd have had to shaved my head to get Ken to say anything about what I looked like, anything specific. So he certainly wouldn't have cared where I got a cut. Sure, sometimes he'd say I looked "nice" in some general sense, but in those last years, whenever I wore a new blouse, I never once heard him compliment me on it, never once even heard him say it seemed new.
What can a bad haircut do to me? I can't be any more alone than I already am. If anything, maybe I'll get some sympathetic guy to lay eyes on me, some guy who knows what a bad haircut is, who can "feel my pain."
Not that what Star gave me was bad.
It's different.
That's all I'll say.
She didn't let me look in the mirror while she did it. She didn't want me interfering.
I was a little shocked when she thrust me into the bathroom to examine what she'd done after the fact.
It's the shortest my hair's been since I was baby. No, I'm not bald, but it's definitely more punk than I'm used to. For one, my neck is completely exposed. The hair is shorn back there--I can feel the bristles with my hand. The sides, I'm supposed to comb back like a guy's. The top--that's where all the art is, all the spikiness. And then there's a swoop at the front, a big wave. It's blond--almost white. The rest is the darkest I've ever gone, as black as the bottom of most of my shoes.
It's taking some getting used to, but looking at it again in the mirror tonight before getting on my jammies and sitting down to write this, I'm beginning to like it.
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