A hair-raising tale

I've been thinking about a haircut for a while now. I have very straight, very thin hair. It likes to just be itself, and resists flippery.

My mother hated her straight hair, which I think was a hang-up from the generation before, who still spend every waking moment in curlers and have perms every few weeks. So I suffered from Teenage Perm Syndrome until I learnt to love my lack of curl. During my twenties I had long straight red hair. Durng my mid-thirties I have had mostly long straight black hair, occasionally with quirks like blonde ends or grey roots. I've been keeping it a fairly dark red-brown lately, trying to avoid the scariness of the grey roots. My aim is to have a very very short cut in my forties and purge myself of the need to colour. It will take a level of bravery akin to when I grew out my fringe and aired the Scary Brow to the world. I get taken a lot more seriously without a fringe. My wrinkles look serious too.

Anyway, until today I looked a bit like this


and I could do this


and this


and this


and this


You get the idea [only quick sketches, my nose and chin are not as perky as that! Fun though, a bit like playing with a Barbie head in Photoshop].

But every few years a girl likes a change. I went into a hairdresser at lunchtime on a whim, one of those no-wait places. Made sure the girl kept my ponytail so I can add it to my samples-of-past haircolour collection, and let her cut upwards. Nothing amazing, but I did get a shock towards the end...

I had my glasses off, and she'd put the usual black plastic cape around my shoulders, and with my myopic eyes I looked at myself in the mirror. GAH! my inner voice said. HOLY CRAP!

I'd gone from this to this!

Then the hairdresser did a bit of a blow-dry and I put my glasses on, and I looked like a nice, harmless, fluffy duck. Phew! Don't want to be taken THAT seriously.