Haircut

The anonymity of not being known in the fourth largest U.S. city must give me courage when it comes to changing my appearance. My sweet man chuckled at lunchtime when I said I had an appointment to have my hair cut. He knows my history of proclaiming "I'm goin' short, this time" and then chickening out. When my behind is in that chair with gleaming scissors poised and mocking mirror, my hands can't seem to go above my shoulders as I demonstrate my desired length. But today with printed-out picture in hand, I proclaimed, "I want this haircut." Shelly seemed to know my history and asked me a few insightful questions and started cutting before I could change my mind. All of this was made a little more urgent because I had my rascals in tow. I made my appointment at this salon assuming it was "family friendly" - it wasn't "family hostile," but it was awkward to say the least. My hair was washed in the opposite corner of the building of the seating area where Bug and Bean were set up with books, paper, and pencils - oh, and stale candy canes - I thought I had packed Bug's gameboy, but found out in the salon that it was some other random black drawstring bag with electronic paraphenalia. I realized halfway through the appointment that my hands were gripping the vinyl armrests ready to leap up at the first Bean shriek. Shelly noticed and encouraged me to relax - that the kids were fine and not bothering anyone. One turbanned woman came over to my chair and complimented me on the kids' behavior - thank you...but get me out of here!

Anyway, here is the result. I like it. Sweet Man said, "I thought you were going short-short!" Baby steps, man.