It’s a hair thing…

You will never look at your hair the same way again after you finish reading this post.

Am happy with my hair?  Somehow, it depends on the feedback I get from the mirror.  I cannot ignore it, because it is one of the first things I look at in the morning.  Have a big, big mirror in the bathroom, so it is impossible not to look at it.  Right now my hair is too long for a many happy birthdays gal like me.  As we get….. long hair is not too becoming.  It makes us look much….  That’s why I need to go and get a cut.  That’s when my stomach turns upside down.  I hate going to the “cut shop.”  For the past few years,  everyone I go to (and I have had a different one every time I get a cut) is in a bad mood.  I rationalize it thinking that these women are going through the same stage I am going through.  Well, not really, I am post menopausal, they are in the middle of the process.  Just imagine.  I think they look at every person that comes through their door as someone just to make their day, and I don’t mean giving them your well-preserved and saved dinero.  I mean, you are what they have been waiting for to get even with their husband, if they have one, their children, the daughter-in-law, you get my point.  I dread going to the “shop.”  I feel like the cattle going to the slaughter-house.  I do try sometimes at home to do my own trimming, and that’s when the baseball cap will have to do until I go and surrender to these amazons with scissors in their hands.  I can feel the bad vibes.  And you know that I am all for keeping my blue aura.  My aura gets so much out of alignment, that as soon as I leave the butcher I have to come home and take a shower to let go of so much antagonism and the hair left all over me.  Probably you have never analyzed your trip to the “shop” this way before.  Or maybe you are very fortunate to have someone who really cares about your hair.

Only one time, in New York City, in August of 1978 I had the best hair cut in my entire 62 passing through.  It was in a real beauty shop, on 57th Street, between Park Avenue and Madison Avenue.  I remember the date, because it was a real treat.  It cost me plenty, but it was a pleasure departing with my dinero.  I think that woman took each strand of my hair and dealt with it as if she really cared how it was going to look after she had finish with me.

I am not going to continue to traumatize you with my hair issues, but now you have an idea of some of the pondering I do whenever the mirror on the wall tells me “hey, you, who do you think you are, a young punk?  Go and get a hair cut as soon as you can, so I can do a better job of giving a nice image back to you.  Get it?”  Life is not that pleasant and easy in Happyville sometimes.   I could continue talking about the provenance of my hair, its other issues, etc.,  but the word counter in my computer is telling me I am talking too much.

Have a good hair or beard day.

Your Happy Contessa

P.S. FYI I had not yet combed my hair when I took this picture with my ccc.