Short short

Last Thursday I cut my hair. I mean, really cut.

It was the last of four stages. From midway down my back, I cut it to just below my shoulders to get rid of the dry, ratty ends. Then, I went for a chin-length bob, but because my hair is wavy except on the top, where it is oddly stick-straight, my coiffure resembled the equilateral triangle made famous by Gilda Radner’s Roseanne Rosannadanna from SNL in the 70s. I corrected that with a “bixie” which falls between a bob and a pixie. It looked like an abridged version of Kid Rock’s mullet. So, I chopped it off.

It's not a buzz, but it’s damn near. It’s nerdy Boy Scout hair.  I’m happy with it, but every night when I’m sleeping, I forget, and every morning, I’m newly startled by my appearance. Who is that cheerful fellow? I think, seeing my reflection in the mirror. They look an awful lot like my mother!

Shedding brain cells and hair simultaneously is a definite win-win. It’s a daily welcome to the person I lose track of overnight who rises from the mirror to greet me day after day; not, as Sylvia Plath put it, like a terrible fish, but living proof I’m still capable of surprising myself.