Snip, Snip

I hadn't really been paying much attention to what my hair looked like, so last night, when I finally glanced in the mirror and really scrutinized, I was bothered by the front. It's so much shaggier there, out of balance with the back, which is about half an inch long and tapered along my neck. So, during a commercial break during The Apprentice, I grabbed the kitchen scissors and began cutting----or should I say, hacking?

I'm not entirely pleased with the result. In fact, it looks no better than it did But I'm happy that I took action. I hate feeling stale. I hate feeling discontent-but-paralyzed. I hate making daily phone calls to my hair salon, struggling with my Fil-o-Fax and a dry pen and the receptionist's Charlie Brown teacher voice, attempting to negotiate a time that works for everyone, just to get my freakin' bangs trimmed. So, I cut it myself. And if it looks shitty after I shower this morning, I'll cut it again.

I used to have loooooonnnnng hair that people either loved or hated. No neutrality as far as my hair was concerned--no sir. I was called "Julia Roberts" and I was called "Michael Landon." I was once stopped at an airport by a screaming girl who thought that I was Jami Gertz from "The Lost Boys," and I was once attacked by a Rodney Dangerfield look-a-like at the video store where I worked who told me that my hair was "terribly unattractive," did nothing for me, and "should just be chopped off." I was so invested in that loooooonnnnng hair because I felt that my face just wasn't pretty and my hair was about all that I had going for me, looks-wise.

But then, I got older. And more trustful. And more desirous of a blow-dry routine that didn't take ninety-seven minutes. So, I allowed my hair guy to cut off a bit more during each of my visits to him, and eventually, after my second son was born, I shoved a photo of Selma Blair into his hand and said, "Cut it all off" and, like Edward Scissorhands, he did. And once again, people either loved or hated my hair, but I always loved it. Unless the bangs started to hang into my eyes, and I felt compelled to play beauty school dropout.

I wish that I could be as easygoing with everything as I am with my hair. I wish I could, without a care, hop planes to Ibiza or make PowerPoint presentations in front of three hundred colleagues or testify at due processes. I wish that I could bid at auctions or invest in property. I wish that I could stand up during open-mike night at the local coffee shop and read a poem out loud.

But right now, I can't. I'm just too careful about most things. Except hair.