hairy memories

I'm not entirely sure why, but I've never liked getting haircuts. My true neurotic tendencies shine brilliantly as I anxiously sit and wait to hear my name called and trust my hair to a stranger with scissors. While I sit and flip through the year-old magazines they have available, I simultaneously size up all of the stylists and determine which ones I want to call my name. Because naturally you can tell how well someone will cut your hair just by looking at them.

When I was little my mom had to drag me to get a haircut. I think she would take me to Fantastic Sam's because they at least gave you a toy for submitting yourself to the parent-forced haircut. Once I actually asked my mom to take me for a haircut and I can still recall her saying, "You actually want me to take you to get a haircut?!" I ended up spending a lot of time in salons with my mom back in the day because she was always getting her hair colored and permed. After she went through chemo and her hair started growing back curly, I remember her joking and saying, "Think of all the money I'll be saving at the salon now that my hair is growing back naturally curly!"

When I was in high school and began to care about how I looked, I would strategically ask my dad to take me for a haircut on Fridays because then I had the rest of the weekend to get used to my new look before it made its debut at school Monday morning. Despite my efforts, my dad usually opted for Sunday haircuts and going to a place where I couldn't understand any of the ladies working there.

Fortunately, things went smoothly yesterday when I stopped in at the local Hair Cuttery. Thanks, Lee.