Lately, it’s taking forever to dry my hair. Must be because I can’t get in to get my hair cut, due to the lockdown from coronavirus. Probably won’t get in for another…well, who knows? Nothing is open that brings people together. Okay, essential stuff is open, like doctor offices—but not dentists; grocery stores—but not restaurants; pharmacies—but not libraries. That last one is a real killer.
But I diverge. My hair. I suppose I could go back to cutting it myself, considering that it’s short and ragged at the best of times. It wasn’t always that way. In college I had hair down to my shoulder blades. I also had my very own personal hair trimmer: my roommate. Fresh out of the shower, I could comb my hair flat onto my back and Pam could trim off a nice even line. I did the same for her, but it was even easier, considering her hair, when plastered down wet, almost reached her waist. Easy-peasy.
Before I flew off to spend a college summer in Europe, I chopped off my hair into a pageboy. One nice length, no frills. But then I got to Paris. Paris! Where I could get a Real French Friseur to cut—no, no—to Style my hair. The French family I stayed with set me up, and I floated off to get a Real French Haircut. Only one disturbing fact. The stylist (note the lack of capital letter) spent several years working in New York City and spoke flawless English. If I wanted an English-speaking stylist from New York City, even if he was French, I would go to New York City. But to make a long story short, he did a more than satisfactory job. I ended up with a very short pixie-cut. I loved it, I really did. All was forgiven.
I still have short hair, with a relapse of a year or two in between. Now, once again, I’m headed toward Gloria Steinem hair. Who remembers Gloria Steinem anyway? Or her hair? Just think long, straight, like a plunging waterfall. That’s going to be me pretty soon. My hair is white and I love it that way, but somehow I don’t think long, straight whitewaterfall is going to do it. Years ago, when it started to turn, I had silver streaks above my ears, similar to a man’s sideburns turning white. Then the streaks migrated, growing like comet tails, right on up to cover everything. Fun to watch, and I liked every stage.
I wonder how long it will take before I can’t tolerate the long shaggy neckline that’s developing. Or the bangs that are invading over my forehead, threatening to obscure eyesight. The next time you see me, I may look like Cousin It from the Addam’s Family—all hair. All white hair.