As I’m sitting in Salon Pompeo surrounded my Uptown’s most pretentious, listening to a gay hairdresser complain about his best friend, I am startled to see my hair fall to the ground.
This is nothing new. I mean I knew I was at the hair salon and I knew the hairdresser was going to cut my hair. In fact, I’m a big fan of haircuts. And this haircut was substantial enough. Not as crazy as the time I cut off 12 inches and gave it to the cancer patients. I’m not going to say I’m a hero to the sick, but I’ll let you say it.
This haircut, though, would be more than simply giving back. It would mean much more. It would mean no more throwing my hair in a pony when I got too hot. It would mean I would have to actually blow dry it in the morning and not rely on the Texas heat to air dry my hair into a long mess that just hangs from my head. But most importantly, it would change how people viewed me. How they would talk about me.
From now on, when people talk about me, would they say:
that beautiful, funny girl with the short brown hair
that attractive, mentally sharp girl with the medium length brown hair
that engaging and emotionally smart girl with the brown hair that used to be long but is now short.
What would they say???????????????????????????????????????
Men can’t just sit in a locker room after a long nine innings and say, Did anyone see the hot girl with the great nail polish in the stands? No, they would need to identify me by my head. The shortstop would say, The blonde? The pitcher would say, No, not her. Then the first baseman would properly identify me. But what would he say. What would he say.
Do you see the identity crisis that was going through my head. It was something really important to me. I tried to block out the noise of my hairdresser talking about Thursday night’s shootings in Dallas and tried to focus on my hurt feelings. How could he not see the emotional pain on my face?
I left the salon and tipped my hairdresser more than I should. I’m not saying I’m God’s gift to hairdressers in Dallas/America, but I’ll let my $15 tip speak for itself.
I went home. I was greeted by my roommate’s dog. I looked at him. I got down on his level and really looked at him. I said, “Winston, do you not notice anything different about me?” He yawned. I fed him.
I waited for my father to arrive at my apartment so we could go to a 98 Degrees concert. What would he say? Would he be overwhelmed by my new transition? Would he finally see me as a grown woman he hoped I would be one day?
He didn’t notice. All night. He didn’t notice anything.