I have been crazy about my hair for the past two years. Perhaps it’s because a stylist finally told me that my haircut made me look like I was in high school (with bangs), or like a librarian (pulled back in a braid). I grew out my bangs in a side-part, and the result is a style I love. Besides all of the time I save by not complaining about “bad hair days”, I have also become quite vain about my locks.
My salon coddles me. Perhaps it’s a sign of my spending level but they recognize my voice when I call. And it was Gabriel, who works at the front desk who recommended Three Cups of Tea, one of my favorite books. Walking through the front door feels like home.
This past Saturday was my standard appointment, a week overdue because I was out of town the prior Saturday. With the holidays’ increased demand, I had to split my hair services into color with Casey and cut/style with Maryam, my regular stylist. Not to worry, I thought. What can go wrong?
Casey was fast. I was glad to have my book as I sat with my dripping wet hair and waited for my haircut and style. I didn’t even blink when she came to check my roots – just checking … or so I thought.
It’s a good book (I, Claudius) and I didn’t realize that my hair was nearly dry when Maryam was ready for me. She frowned. She poked around at my scalp. She kept frowning. Then the bad news: the color didn’t quite cover the roots.
Picture me, a forty-something woman with tears in my eyes because of my hair. All of my not-bad hair days were ganging up on me for an ego bruising fest.
Did it have to be the day of my boyfriend’s party … when I would be meeting a large group of his friends for the first time? Of course. And naturally, I didn’t have time to stay there for another two hours while I went through the entire process – again. I could hardly open my eyes for fear that tears would slide down my cheeks. Yes, pathetic and embarrassing.
I sat and stewed as the hairdryer’s high-pitched drone moved around my head. Maryam, whom I have known for a couple of years now, told me that her parents would be visiting from Iran beginning next month. Their visas had been approved. Now, that’s important. I also know that it’s Maryam’s mother who encouraged her to go into the hair business, and I’m glad she did.
With great relief I saw that it wasn’t as bad as I had imagined. Dry, my hair color blended in such a way that the roots didn’t really show … much. I was spared the indignity of meeting my boyfriend’s friends with compromised hair color.
The bigger shock, in the end, was my reaction. Never would I have imagined that I would be fighting tears because of my hair. I don’t like to think of myself that way. Yet, while I’m happy that everything turned out all right, I need to remember that there are more important things to consider. The biggest blessing is the reminder of how fortunate I am that my parents live in the same country and don’t need to wait for their visas to be approved in order to visit. My boyfriend loves me no matter how my hair color turns out. His friends are all very smart and funny – and I don’t think that they talked about my hair after I left the room. And the fact that I have hair? That’s a blessing worth contemplating.