Bad, BAD Hair Day

I've never been the type of person to see my hairdresser routinely. I don't think I've ever penciled in an eight week appointment because scheduling a commitment that far in advance doesn't quite mesh with my ceaseless, something suddenly came up, real life dilemmas. Besides, when it comes to haircuts, my hairdresser is pretty punctual as far as squeezing me in within two or three days of my desperate cry for help because she knows what will happen if she doesn't.

I'm almost positive it was the cloudy drizzly morning that hugely contributed to my unnerving mood since dampness makes my hair (and my attitude) unmanageably frizzy. The hairdresser had been booked solid for seven days, and I knew when I got out of the shower and looked in the mirror on this seventh morning, that everything about the rest of the day would be ALL wrong if anything at all interfered with my 12:00 hair appointment; like for instance...the start of my child's fever.


Those old waves of panic sunk any rational thoughts still floating around in my head as I picked up the phone to cancel the appointment. Did I want to reschedule? No. I'd call back in a couple of days...and even before I hung up the receiver, I could hear the familiar voice inside my head whispering "scissors."


It's a horrible feeling when all of my self-control is corrupted by such compulsive behavior and there are simply no alternative choices available for consideration. I must fix the bad hair and I must fix it right NOW.

I proceeded to take the $5.00, five year old, household pair of scissors out of the kitchen junk drawer...the ones we have all used repeatedly for cutting craft paper, chip bags, scrap material, anything we can't rip open with our front teeth. I quietly locked myself behind the bedroom door for the inevitable transformation because I'd be chagrined if one of my children ever got the slightest notion to behave as badly as their mother (who has chopped off her hair with a pair of dull kitchen scissors more times than she'd ever feel safe confessing).


Honestly, I don't want them to know that I have these uncontrollable hair-cutting tendencies. I'm not impulsive about anything else. I don't drool in the mall over the latest pumps or designer threads nor do I throw three packages of Oreos in the grocery cart, desperate for a sugar fix. And, I never ever buy curriculum on a whim.

I guess I'd better be darn thankful for this tangled mass of curly hair that I've continued to curse since the day I was born. I'd never get away with hacking two inches off my head without the help of my unruly hair strands, blending themselves together in such an untidy fashion as to cover up the faulty butchering that continues to go undetected by everyone...except the hairdresser.

She knows exactly why I didn't need to make another appointment for eight more weeks.