Hey, You, Get a Haircut!

Last week Wednesday, at 11 a.m., I went for a haircut. My hair was beyond the needing a haircut phase, it was more than straggly ends and no discernible hair style moments.

What my hair was, was a state of neglect.

I didn't need a haircut as much as I needed to treat myself like a person that needed to be cared for. Yes, every day I left myself a note on the kitchen counter, “Hair appointment!” but at the end of every day, the call for the appointment never got made.

I was too busy doing, whatever, for everyone else. A haircut takes 20 minutes, 30 if you ask for a shampoo. With no hair coloring or highlights, I do have 30 minutes to get my hair cut. So why the procrastination to the point of not being able to look at myself in the morning without my first words being my god I need a haircut.

Is it the salon chair that I don't want to sit in?
Is it the smock that always feels too plastic-y that keeps me away?
Is it the article that popped up on facebook about the woman who had a stroke 10 days after a haircut because her head was jerked back to tightly and ended up in a mini-laceration that led to said stroke? (maybe .0001% of a head nod for that one)

The chair at the salon is okay, even if I always worry that I'll be stepping into the well of the foot rest and my hairdresser will swing the chair at the exact wrong moment and knock me over. The smock is a PITA and lately, it's not exactly doing much for my physical attractiveness with a newfound effect of pulling on newfound looser neck skin.

And the stroke thing? I'll always worry about the stroke thing. With every single second of tingling and numbness that comes my way.

I didn't make an appointment because the time was never right. There was always something else going on and my hair-needs didn't feel important. But for something not feeling important, it ran through every second of my day every time I'd catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. Haircut haircut haircut why can't you go and get your haircut??

It will feel good to have your scalp massaged, yes? Yes.

You'll like the way it doesn't snarl after your shower, yes? Yes.

Won't it look so nice, to have those ends just off your head? Yes.
Think about it, no more guilt when you look in the mirror, yes? OMG, yes. 

So, talk to me, what is the problem? Because there is one.

 

Mumble mumble, hem and haw. The truth? Yes, the truth.

 

I don't like to take time to do anything. 

 

Aha! But, let's say, your kids came in, right now, and said, "Mom, I need a haircut." What would you do?

 

I'd take them to get a haircut.

 

Buuuuut - you won't do that for you... is that right?

 

Nowhere to hide, is there? Yes, I won't do that for me. 

 

After this humbling exchange with myself, I called and made my haircut appointment. My stylist, Liz, is so cool. She took the call, she didn't say, "WOW. Looks like there has been *some time* since I last saw you." Nope, Liz gives me the appointment, she ends with, "See you Wednesday!" and then come Wednesday, she does.

 

I sit in Liz's chair, I say like I always do, "Did you hear about the lady that had the stroke after her neck was torqued at the hair salon?" She'll ignore that and go right into loosening my ponytail, squinting her eyes, and asking, "So? A good clean up?"

 

Yes.

 

"You okay with three inches off?"

 

Yes.

 

And we begin. My hands under a too hot plastic apron that I sneak out from underneath for fresh air every few seconds.

 

She concentrates, pulling my hair up and out and slides her scissors across. My shoulders fall back and my lungs fill with new oxygen. I look in the mirror and see shine where only this morning a puffball of split ends and fuzzy tips existed.

 

15 minutes later, Liz pulls the apron away and sweeps hair off my shoulders with the most delicate brush I've ever felt.

 

My hair in Liz's mirror looks tended to. I look like I matter to myself.

 

I thank Liz and leave a tip that is enough for her to get a salad of her choice at Panera's.

 

I drive home, looking in my mirror. For the first time in months, I smile when I don't hear back, why don't you get yourself a haircut.

 

* * *

Listen To Your Dreams

YOU sit up with a jolt. Flinging back the covers, you see the sky outside is pitch, and you know it's dead center of night with no sunrise for hours. If you look at the clock, it will only remind you how few hours of sleep you have left. But it's 3:17AM and your heart is pounding. The to do list that is your life won't quiet enough to let you get the sleep you need.

Maybe you should listen to your dreams. If they've enough power to shout through the subconscious for you to hear them call in your awake world, maybe, pay attention.

There is no dream interpretation specialist you need to consult, not any quiz you need to take in a magazine to know what your dreams are telling you. WAKE UP, the message is plain and clear.

If you see yourself behind the wheel of a careening van, and it's no van you've seen before – not your British racing green Dodge with the extra foot of trunk space. This one is a maxivan and the predictable white, thank God not rusted out. You're speeding beyond the 55 mph posted on the road and you are flying over speed bumps, going too fast through residential streets. You try and look down at the speedometer but you're too scared to take your eyes off the road. Just as well, the numbers on there are unspeakable and far beyond the legally posted limits. The steering wheel doesn't feel tight enough to your liking, either.

What does it mean?

 

We all know. There are things you need a vacation from. Like everything. You can't afford a villa, though it would be more than amazing. No ten days in Hawaii, as much as you'd like. What you need is a break. Give yourself one. Do you really need to do the to do list? Isn't there, aren't there, a few things you can put off until next week?

Will the world crack open if you don't do the floors this week, vacuuming or bare wood. Swiping the kitchen counters, OK, go ahead – food germs and salmonella, but maybe scratch off dusting the book shelves. What's one more week of dust allergy red stoner eyes? You've got some spare Visine in the downstairs bathroom.

Let's keep asking the questions - do dinners have to be square? Why wait until Friday night for pizza... it might taste more delicious on a Monday night. Instead of scrubbing the toilets, how about this week we just squirt hand soap in the bowl and let the suds sit.  

Could your dreams know what you need? Is that out of control white maxivan saying STOP and you know how, you're the driver? I would say, yes.

My husband says merely, probably "It's that coffee you had at 10PM” and that's a possibility, I'll give you that.

But it feels a whole lot more 'just right' to take a vacation in the way I can give myself for zero dollars.

Today, my Belize can be found in the kitchen sink. The one that will be left to sit full of dishes while I put my feet up in the 20 minutes I have before I start picking up, dropping off, running to, and bringing back.

 

Ah, what a gorgeous sight it is from way over here on the sofa.

 

* * *

photocredit: Caye">http://www.flickr.com/photos/81464596@N00/4725110002">Caye Caulker, Belize
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