Sometimes something as simple as a haircut makes you wax a little philosophic...or just blow a lot of hot air

I love the feeling of a fresh new haircut. Even if it lasts for just 24 hours, I feel pretty. Someone professional, qualified, and driven insofar as the cuticles on my head are concerned has washed, cut, and styled my hair.

There is also a slight fear I have to overcome in order to go through with the scheduling of a hair appointment. Well, several actually. I fear that I won't convey excactly what I want and walk away with less money in my pocket, and far less hair on my head than I'd bargained for. I fear that the hairdresser will cower and instead of telling me how I should do my hair (because she knows best, not me), she does what I tell her I think I want, and she grumbles under her breath that I'll look like a fool when she's done with me. I fear that the hairstylist doesn't have enough experience and just wants to make a buck so she won't try very hard on my hair. Ironically enough, the ultimate fear is that the hairdresser will work miracles on my hair; that my hair will look great, feel great.... and that I will never be able to repeat it.

For the last couple of years I have gotten my hair cut by good friends. It has worked out well and cut out most of the fear and anxiety that I'd previously endure over a hair appointment. I'd get in an hour-long chat with a gal pal, and also a hair cut at the same time. It's always been for a bargain because my SAHM salon girlies never charge enough, so I can tip generously and they think I am a saint. Meanwhile, I'm still saving a bundle on my hair and not getting sucked into purchasing hundreds of dollars on hair care prodicts. Win-win, right?

When we moved here to Idaho I still managed to find another SAHM gal-pal to cut hair. I mentioned I needed my hair trimmed and thinned, she had her next morning free, so it worked out great. We chatted while she snipped away, and I came home with a much lighter head.

However, I have slowly creeped into a rut of what I like to call Mom-Hair. Moms with great hair probably take offense to this title. I'm not a mom with great hair. I'm a mom with Mom-Hair. And so it was that this morning I found myself in the most awful pit of dispair with my mother hair. It was dry, full of split-ends, and didn't even look good in a pony-tail for goodness sakes. How can you be a mom and not even get away with a pony-tail? It was bad. So I considered my options. Call one of the gals I know that cuts hair out of her home, or pay the big bucks and get an appointment with a --- gasp ---- salon? I finally decided it wouldn't hurt to have a stranger get her hands on my hair. After all, if she was brutally honest about my hair, there would be no outstanding relationship to ruin. I took a shot in the dark and called the hoity toity salon down the street to see if there was an opening this morning. I know, mistake number one. If a stylist has an opening the very same morning that must mean she is no good, right? I decided to go for it anyway. Anything done to my hair had to be better than the head of Mom-Hair I was impossibly trying to tame. Right?

So I showed up and the fancy salon desk ladies offered me water to drink from a fancy champagne glass. Noticing around me all the fabulous-looking ladies, I was was silently relieved that I'd managed to get fully dressed for the event. I remember reading once in a magazine that you should always show up to a hair appointment looking your best. Showing up in a pony tail and sweats dwindles your chances of getting a great cut and style if they think that's all you're going to do with yourself anyway. So, even though that's probably what I would end up doing anyway, I picked out a non-mom outfit, put on my make-up for the first time before 10am this month, and attemmpted to do my hair despite the odds against me.

Danielle led me to my little station where I parked my purse. She took and hung up my coat and offered me more water. Fabulous service, I thought. Then she sat me down and started running her fingers through my hair. I always wonder what is going through a sylist's mind when she touches my hair and examines what I have attempted to call "styling" it. I cringed a little and took a deep breath. She asked me what I wanted so I said,

"I need a trim. Really badly as you can see." She asked about the bangs I had clipped up in my bobby pins and I didn't have an answer. Was I growing them out? I don't know. Did I want to have bangs? Well, yes, but not all the time. And so far I haven't been able to get them to lay just right against my forehead, so I always went with the bobby pins. Then, almost as if she were waving a magic wand, she pulled my bobby pins out and with a gentle swipe of her comb, she had solved the mystery of the impossible bangs.

You're parting your hair on the wrong side, she told me. It was that easy. She hand't known me for more than 20 seconds and she had solved a mystery that I have been unable to solve for the last 20 years of my life (yes, regrettably, I have been attempting to style my hair since I was 6. I do give full credit to my mother for allowing me to do so at such a young age to give me my independence. Of course I cringe because she gave that independence to me. I looked terrible). All I needed to do is part my hair on the other side and all was right with the world. Or so it seemed in that very moment. I smiled.

We were off to a good start. She gently mentioned it looked like it had been a while since I had a cut. I've much gone longer before getting a hair cut, but it was no use trying to defend myself. After all, the proof was in the pudding. Or on my head, rather. Then as she's washing my hair, which is my favorite part, I remembered I really wanted a deep conditioning treatment on my hair. I wondered if it's too late to mention, if she even has time to do it or......
"I need some moisture in my hair" I blurted out. She agreed and offered a deep conditioning treatment. I nodded and took a deep breath. Good, she had time. So I sat under warm lamps and read about Sulley the heroic pilot of Flight 1549.

I was sad when my time under the warm lamps was over, I was getting cozy. Danielle led me back to my chair and we eased right back into our conversation.

After she sat me back down in my chair and began cutting, I got a little pit in my stomach. It looked like she was cutting off an awful lot. I sneaked a look at the floor, because that's how you really can tell how much is coming off your head, you know. The floor was covered with my hair. All I wanted was a trim. A trim. This looked like it was turning out to be more than a trim. I was too afraid to say anything, and chose to continue enjoying our stimulating conversation about books, movies, and our children. And it kept raining hair on the floor.
{ kyle is asking me if I am still writing about my hair-cut. Yes, dear, I am. A haircut is a monumental event in a woman's life. It means you have time enough to steal away and get your hair washed by someone else. A beautiful thing. Blogworthy even.}

The end result was shocking. As she blow dried my hair, and snippity-snipped some more I could not believe what I saw. Even more, I couldn't believe what I felt. I kept running my fingers through my hair-- something I haven't been able to do for a long time. Because it had been too dry, too tangly. She showed me how to style my hair, and what products did what. By the end I could hardly believe what I saw.

I liked it. And I still had a lot of hair left. She artfully mastered the craft of thinning my hair, styling it, and keeping it the treasured length my husband says he loves so much.

And so it is.... I will get to bask in the next 24 hours of a freshly cut and styled mane after 2.5 hours of one-on-one attention. I may not be able to replicate it ever again, because, let's be honest. I won't be spending more than 20 minutes on it. But for now I will run my fingers through it over and over again, swish it back and forth, and smile knowing that for at least one day this year, I did not have Mom-Hair. And that is worth facing the fear that it won't look like this ever again.

Thank you, Danielle. You managed to pull off a miracle.