I have the Haircut Bug. It came on suddenly about 48 hours ago. I feel weak. Symptoms include but are not limited to: overall disgust when I catch a glimpse of my mop in the mirror, and obsessing in front of the mirror in futile attempts to decipher how different styles would look on me if I actually picked up the phone and made an appointment. Oh, and I’m spending inordinate amounts of time online Googling celebrity hairstyles. Ya. It’s that bad.
Katie Holme’s bob will look absolutely darling in one photo and frighteningly unflattering in the next. Victoria Beckham is posh and polished in one pic– punk in another. I’ve already ruled out Meg Ryan as a hair-do-alike canidate. Let’s face it–only Meg Ryan can pull off Meg Ryan hair. Everyone else just looks homeless. And if I walk into the salon with a picture of Catherine Zeta Jones’ latest do, I’m just setting myself up for disappointment. I need a celebrity look-alike who will walk the plank first and tell me if the water’s warm. I need her to tell me whether the bob was a mistake, if going dark helped her career, or if the pixie cut pushed her to new heights or thrust her to the pit of despair.
Every couple of years I go through this. Deep down I know there is nothing easier than long, straight hair. I know this. But it doesn’t feel easier. I always get suckered into thinking something short and sassy will be simpler on both my hair dryer and me. I’ll just run my fingers through it and go. I’ve cut my hair pixie short three times in my adult life. I’m not even going to count my unfortunate self haircut when I was four. So three. Each time I endure what seems like an endlessly awkward grow out phase only to do it all over again. It’s like forgetting the pain of child birth. I grow it out, then find myself, once again, in that same swivel chair with that same black cape cascading down my confident shoulders only to hear that same decisive “snip.” Then I think, “Oh ya…that’s why I have long, straight hair.”
But I can’t have long, straight hair forever, can I? There comes a point when every woman needs a “do.” A look. Last night I laid my hairdo anxiety at the feet of my dear, sweet husband. He’s no fool. He heard the words “hair” and “cut” and knew to tread softly. “Oh honey. You can pull of any look.”
Ha! He’ll keep saying that until he gets the bills from the snooty salon, where I have to keep going back in order to maintain this new, sheik look I’m pulling off so well. Is there no affordable cure for the dreaded Haircut Bug?
If only my insurance would cover it.