How do you feel about your hair?
I hate mine.
It’s fine, it’s thin, it never has any body. Even hair spray makes it sag. I could spray it with shellac and it would droop against my face after an hour.
My mother learned early on that I couldn’t have the long french braids that my friends all got to have. Barettes slid out within minutes. So did elastics. Any additional length to my hair just made it hang down heavier, so that if it grew much past my ears it simply became a curtain of greasy locks that clung to itself in strings.
So she settled on a pageboy bob for me, and it worked pretty well, and I’ve never really strayed far from it.
Except for one unfortunate incident.
It happened when we lived in Dutch Caribbean.
It started out so innocently. My mother and I were out, doing some shopping, and my hair had grown a little long over vacation so my mother decided to have it trimmed. She walked me into a salon, sat me down in the barber’s chair, and said to the Dutch hair dresser, “The same cut, only shorter.” She demonstrated a few times with hand signals that she wanted a trim of around an inch or so.
Then she patted me on the shoulder and went to do some shopping.
When she returned, she found her daughter staring in silent, polite horror while the barber carefully applied gel to her hair and massaged the remaining two inches into Bart Simpson style spikes.
THE GUY CUT MY HAIR TO TWO INCHES LONG ON TOP, SHAVED ME AROUND THE EARS, AND THEN SPIKED WHAT WAS LEFT.