Finally fed up of having pitchforks being stuck into my hair , and folks on the street handing me rubberbands and hair oil, I barged into one of them chic salons that you need to get an appointment with the top stylists a month in advance if you are a non celeb and then reconfirm before the actual date of the cut and hang on to your social life till you actually get there. I think I scared them blowdried and perfect folk inside with my wild mane, or they took it as a challenge to tame it to perfection. Yup, they took pity on me, and agreed to take me in without an appointment and the hair was, as they say, cut and styled.
How do I feel after it all? Lightheaded of course. Midwaist has gone to shoulder length. Sleeker. Paddle brush hair drying and hair serum has a lot to do with it. And more in control. I know now why women chop off their hair after a break up. Yesterday was one of those days I was close to killing some folk, who escaped death narrowly thanks to a kind stylist taking me to the chair and giving me some hair therapy.
Take this tip down in your book of survival tips for urban women. When in a funk, you now have one more option apart from shopping. You can now go for a hair cut. And do give the stylist a free hand, after of course specifying that you would perhaps not appreciate leaving the premises with pink hair in a mohawk.
So what I have now is a shoulder length cut called reverse graduation. Whatever that means, with a side swept fringe doing battle with my contact lenses. I know, I just know that I’m investing in hair bands.
And no, the husband didnt like it I think. He noticed it and pretended not to notice it. When I drew the lack of length to his attention, he grouched , “I saw,” in tones so dire that I didnt dare pursue the line of investigation about whether he liked what he saw or not. Doesnt matter. I like what I see. As of now, before I wash it myself. And that is all that matters, isnt it?