The haircut story

In one of the worst decisions I've ever made, I decided to get my hair cut yesterday. Without a translator around. I was desperate for a trim, and this lady who runs a salon downtown was in our living room with all her supplies.

I held my fingers slightly apart to indicate I wanted about an inch taken off. She nodded, repeated "beautiful hair" a few times in English, and took up her scissors. With one cut, I lost seven inches of hair from the left side of my head. At that point, I couldn't do a thing about it -- I had to let her keep cutting, as I watched in horror in my bedroom mirror.

I'm embarrassed to admit it, but after the whole experience was over I ran out of the room and began to cry. This may sound totally silly, but I felt completely violated. I liked my hair. I know I gripe about how much I shed and how insanely thick my mane is, but I really liked it. And she took that away. I instantly experienced this profound sense of loss that I still haven't shaken. This happened less than a week after our compound got stormed and my car got shot at, and though that day prompted an anxious day, I never cried -- and a phone conversation with a very wise friend calmed me down. I've now talked to two other close friends about the hair debacle, and despite their best efforts neither of them made much progress trying to convince me that this was not a life-threatening crisis.

My hair is now about shoulder length at its longest point, with incredibly dramatic layers going up to nose-length bangs. Bangs. I haven't had bangs since third grade. The layers make my stick-straight hair look bizarrely curly, but only on the ends, and it does this weird Farrah Fawcett feathering thing. There are people who have this haircut, even people who look good in it, but I'm not one of them. Half of it is too short to be pulled up, and these stupid bangs fall in my eyes. I hate it.

I am pleased to say I managed to look in a mirror a few minutes ago without feeling like I was going to cry all over again. I really, truly hate this haircut, but it's not wild and crazy or even poorly executed -- it's just not me. There are many women who have this haircut, so it's not like I'll look like a freak walking down a city street. Most of my male friends probably wouldn't notice it.

Apparently the normal growth rate for hair (about half an inch a month) can be sped up slightly by limiting its exposure to chlorine and other chemicals and eating a protein-rich diet. I've resolved not to set foot in the pool again while I'm here and force down as much mystery meat as possible.