Ever wake up to a pillow covered in hair? Your own, that is. Welcome to the deforestation of my head.
It is shedding season around here. I join the cat and dog, contributing to rolling tumbleweeds that roam this house. My poor spouse harvests strands off his laundry. The birds outside are nesting in it.
Bless my maternal grandfather for this. Bald as a cue ball. My spiritual twin growing up, we had more in common than I thought.
Worrying makes it worse. And right now, my hormones are as steady as a feral cat in heat. Or Charlie Sheen.
Since my bangs have grown out, it’s time to visit my hair stylist. I’m ready to go short, I announce. Can’t kid myself any longer.
Never one to do anything halfway, I like to see where I’ve mowed. Before I can regret it, a good pile of mostly brown stuff lays at my feet, thanks to an understanding hairdresser.
With The Who’s “hope I die before I get old” ringing in my ears.
I sit in the salon chair, reminiscing about another rite of hair passage. Twenty-eight years ago, I signaled the end of a bad relationship by leaving my waist-length hippie hair for a stylish bob. An English major’s nod to F. Scott Fitzgerald.*
Which prompted one of my classmates to slide his desk up behind mine in writing class.
“Nice hair,” whispered the voice of my future husband.
*For his jazz-age drama of women’s coiffure in “Bernice Bobs Her Hair.”