Are You in Good Hands?

I love getting haircuts. I usually walk into the salon thinking, My hair is so boring. It's disgusting, it never looks right, and my bangs have no idea what they're doing. I sit down, distressed, and my hairdresser asks me, "So what are we doing with your hair today?" It seems so obvious. I just point to my head and say, "Well, we need to fix this." I  may seem a little overdramatic, but I have pretty high expectations for how I want my hair to look and extremely low expectations of what I will put in to get it there. My hair regiment usually consists of showering in the morning, running around the apartment like a crazy person trying to get myself ready, and if there's a few extra minutes, I'll pull out the blow dryer for about 4 1/2 minutes.

This wouldn't necessarily be a problem if I was OK with my hair looking like this

instead of expecting my hair to look like this.

It takes a lot to trust your hair to someone. Men don't always understand this concept, because even if they have a bad haircut, all they have to do is wait out a week or two until it grows back to its original length. For me, it's a bigger deal. When I moved from Omaha, leaving my hairdresser Lucy was one of the hardest parts when I tried to envision making a new life in Albuquerque. Lucy knew everything about my hair! How I like my bangs, how little I was willing to upkeep my hair, and what I wanted to look like when it dried naturally. Thankfully, our good friend and realtor Judy gave us a recommendation and that's how we found Diane. I declare that you can decide if a hairdresser works for you in about 2 minutes or less. There's a certain way that a good hairdresser will wash your hair, handle your hair when she cuts it, even just runs a brush through it. I knew Diane would make the cut. 

Despite my low maintenance expectations, my hair dresser Diane manages to take my vague murmurings about uncooperative bangs and turns it into an updated look. Today's cut was no different! She just makes me feel so good about my hair, telling me what a wonderful color my hair is and how she'd never forgive me if I colored it, praising my thick hair, and telling me how lucky I am to have so much hair! I always walk out of the salon feeling like a grown-up Emma Watson.

Lovin' My Locks Again

I love Diane, my hairdresser. We have the best conversations during my appointments, she always compliments my thick hair (a big self-esteem boost), and most importantly, I know I can trust her completely. 

It's a scary thing trusting someone with your hair. Boys don't really understand, but you really do get attached to your hair as you grow accustomed to styling it a certain way, feeling a certain length when you comb it after your shower, and twirling certain strands when you're bored in Geology class. When you sit down in that salon chair, you better have some faith that they will not cut your bangs too short, make your hair uneven, or decide they're going to thin out your hair without asking. It's a big deal. 

I've been growing out my hair for about a year now, waiting to donate it to Locks of Love. I have the bad habit of getting tired and frustrated with my hair and what better thing to do than give to someone who really wants it? Seriously, there are people who would love to have "too much hair". Some people just want to have hair. I'm not usually a daring person (I have my days), so cutting off 10 inches takes a lot of guts for me. I'm getting better at taking chances.

When I live in Provo, I go to the Paul Mitchell hair school because, well, it's cheap. Sure it takes you 2 1/2 hours to get your hair cut by one of the students, but with the teachers watching every step, I have had positive experiences there. Not that it's not occasionally unnerving to watch young women wielding scissors casually at your precious hair. "Exactly how long have you been studying? You doing well in your classes? Messed up any wigs lately?" 

This morning I wasn't scared. I walked into the salon, got my long hair washed one more time, and sat in the stool. Diane began to measure my hair, asking me about school and other things as she began to put rubber bands in my hair and measuring its length. Before I knew it, she was cutting the pony tail off. It's like when a nurse is giving you a shot and doesn't want you to freak out so she distracts you by talking until BAM, she's jammed that needle in your arm. Smart tactic. 

Goodbye long, unmanageable hair that took forever to take care of.

Snip snip. 

Hello freedom.

I wish my hair a happy second life with someone else. I wonder who will get it. I bet they'll be as excited as I was to get rid of it. Life's a beautiful thing.