I cancelled three hair appointments in November. The cancellations were due to the husband having meetings, social dates and hot yoga classes that he didn’t tell me about in advance. The appointment given to a child turned out to be so expensive that I didn’t even try to get my hair cut again until December. When December arrived, I cancelled yet another appointment because a child was sick. Eventually, I walked in a low-budget salon in the mall that I’ve frequented for decades. “It will be 20 minutes.” I bought a coffee and returned to the bench just outside the salon. After 40 minutes, I walked in the salon. “The stylist had to re-do someone’s color and now we’re all going on break. It’ll be an hour.” I know that was my cue to leave. They had no intention of cutting my hair. Someone recently told me that I look like a “Let me talk to your manager” woman. I’m not. I am and have always been a doormat. Southern women without money are raised that way. It’s a tolerable existence until you are no longer young and attractive. Then, your options are polite invisibility or b*tch.

Given a choice between going home and being a stubborn moron, I chose the later. “I’ll wait.” I leaned against the salon opening with my arms crossed and waited. Ten minutes later, they told me to sit in a stylist’s chair. The stylist took a pair of shears, snipped a chunk of hair from the back, then held out her hand and said, “Seven dollars please.” I handed her a ten and left.

As soon as I got home, I realized the back of my hair was more crooked than if I had tried cutting it myself. After all the grief it took to get this much done, I’m embracing the cruddy haircut until spring.

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