I got my hair cut by a lady named Sunshine. I asked her lots of questions about it, because I'm fascinated by names. She said the biggest irritation about such a name was that people expect you to be cheerful all the time. No one is cheerful all the time.
She was cheerful enough the day I sat in her chair, though she pretended to cry about the 6 inches of my hair on the floor. I think it was for my sake, like she expected me to be sad or at least torn about chopping off so much work. I was not distraught. The last time I grew my hair long, I figured out that long hair was not my thing. But then I grew it out again for the wedding, or maybe I was just too lazy to cut it. In any case, by the end of our appointment, Sunshine was not mourning my hair anymore.
I am either a terrible customer or a great one, I can't decide. I go in there and tell them how much to cut off, but that's really my only instruction. I told Sunshine that I wanted it about shoulder-length, and then I said, "Just make it look good." I get different reactions to my lack of instructions. Some of them look stricken. But others, like Sunshine, react like they wish everyone would come in and let the experts decide.
Sunshine had very strong anti-layer feeling. I've been getting layers cut into my hair since I discovered the concept, which was probably fifteen years ago. Layers were a revelation to me. My hair is not naturally voluminous, but layers were the way to fake it. Sunshine told me she was just going to cut straight across, then launched into a not-cheerful spiel about over-layering. I was nervous about going layerless, but I decided to trust in Sunshine. Maybe it was time for a change.
The best part about going from long to short is when you run your fingers through your hair and you unexpectedly run out of hair. Ahh, much better.
That evening, I was a little ambivalent about my hair. There was nothing wrong with the cut, and I've had cuts where something was actually wrong. But somehow the style - straight cut, parted to the side - felt too no-frills. I felt certain that this haircut was giving away to the world that I no longer cared about how I looked, like I was not even trying to be attractive.
It was a married lady haircut.
That night, when Josh came home from work, he passed his husband test by noticing that I had gotten my hair cut. His next comment was that he preferred my hair long (really? First I've heard of it). But he said he didn't care what I did with my hair, as long as I "still looked like a nice lady."
A nice lady. If that isn't the unsexiest thing I've ever heard. A nice lady. Someone completely sexless and non-threatening, who might help you find the cheesecloth in the grocery store. He said "nice," but I heard "old." Turning thirty didn't bother me, but cut the layers out of my hair and I have a little crisis. Yeesh. It's a good thing I married a man who is into nice ladies.
As a note, the few times I have had to buy cheesecloth, I was able to find it at Food Lion. It was a little tricky, though, because it was on one one of those hangers that stick out in the aisles, rather than being in any particular section. You could always ask someone at the store to help you, preferably someone with a non-threatening haircut.