Today, a haircut. This isn't earth-shattering news, but it's been a while. A bra-strap length while, actually. Hair with my kind of curl doesn't need to go that long, especially since my favorite shoes are a variety of Birkenstock--Tatamis, the cute ones, but Birkenstock nonetheless. Add the streaky going-back-to-natural hair, and you have a recipe for granola girl, which is so not me. As I told Maria, I'm one Stevie Nicks handkerchief hemline away from a walking cliché. Yipes.
Maria gets aggressive with the shears. Lo and behold, shape! Lightness! Joy! The gel she tries is all-natural and yummy smelling (pineapple or papaya or some such tropicalness). Unfortch, my hair is now crunchy. Crunchy is good if you're talking potato chips, but not Botticelli-style curls. Can't wait to shampoo this out, condition the daylights out of it, and see what it does on its own.
She did notice the color, or lack thereof. Turns out my natural color is about a tint browner than black. Who knew? I've been some form of medium golden brown for so long, I had no idea it was that different from the heredity. The oxidation from riding around in a convertible with the top down didn't help, either. And then there's the encroaching silver.
"Color?" she asked.
"Nope." Either I'm the bravest 43-year-old I know, or the craziest.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
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