Wiggin’ out

No turning back now. I was sitting nervously in the beauty salon chair with a shampoo cape around my neck.

Moments ago I sat in the salon waiting room flipping through magazines full of models with long beautiful tresses like mine, which had been pulled back in a humble ponytail.

My stylist usually looks forward to seeing me because she says I have the perfect head of hair for her to play with, and often reminds me that I was her inspiration to grow her hair long.

The longer I sat in the waiting room, the more I contemplated a full retreat.

But now it was go time. I was staring at myself in the mirror awaiting the question I'd been preparing for since last week.

"What are we doing today," my hairstylist asked.

I felt so anxious about the answer that I'd only logged a few hours sleep the night before. I could tell I was still quite nervous because underneath the cape I kept fidgeting with my fingernails.

Looking back now (with hindsight being 20/20 and all), I should have prepped my stylist before sitting down; for there was no way she could have been ready for my answer.

"I want to donate this ponytail to Locks of Love," I said.

Judging by the way her eyes bulged out of her head, my words must have hit her with the force of a Mack truck. Her face was struck with fear, shock and disappointment, which didn't help my jittering nerves in the least.

How foolish of me. I hadn't even considered how she might feel about the decision. I did have a full week head start to mull over my fate.

I tried to empathize.

"I'm not gonna lie, I'm pretty nervous about having short hair," I said.

"But I trust you," I said.

She briefed me on the consequences of my decision, and gave me advice on a flattering style. Then it was time for the moment of truth.

"No tears," I promised myself.

She pulled out her shears and started hacking. I felt an uncomfortable lump in my throat. Maybe this was a mistake.

Then came the most shocking sight: my long locks lying lifeless on the counter and the hair left on my head chopped to the ears - the shortest it's been in my entire life.

In a fit of vanity I wanted to cry, but I restrained myself.

"That'll make some kid a really beautiful wig," she said.

She was right.

"I can do this," I said.

At least I have hair, I thought.

(I also have a great hairdresser, who I trust.)

It'll take some adjusting - like, I'll have to find new uses for my absurd collection of hair ties and remember not to squeeze out handfuls of shampoo and conditioner when I'm in the shower.
 
My hairdresser did outstanding work salvaging my mane remains. Yes, this will work out just fine.

I mean I'm sure over time I'll begin to recognize myself in the mirror again (and my family will, too).

Gulp. At least, I hope.

Katie Dolac can be reached at 825-0771 ext. 138 or .