HELP! I practically screeched as he sat me down in the salon chair. I have… a HOLE in my HAIR
I can see that Donald, who just met me, responded. What… uh… what’s going on here?
I don’t know! I don’t know. Am I going bald?!
No response. He just stands there, or squats there, closely inspecting my barely-there ends. He squints (never a good sign). He walks to the other side and squints harder before opening his eyes like he just saw Liza Minelli walk in with a smaller problem, but still one that needed his immediate attention.
After ten minutes he looks at my eyes in the giant mirror ahead and says I’ve seen worse. Tell me what your thoughts are
Just chop it off Donald, just chop it off I wailed. It’s a lost cause!
It’s not that bad he assures me It will be promising by the time I finish with you.
Promising. My new highly recommended stylist thinks my once champion mane is going to “promising” by the time he finishes with me. What has my life become?
For the past three months, I’ve been having dreams that I am bald. Like … Grey Gardens bald. Except not from stress, just… from balding. Now, I have my Dad’s hair – which means I have approximately 98675648293 strands of it. I loose ten thousand a day, and it’s thin, but there’s a lot of it. But lately… it’s just getting less and less. I put my hair in a side braid the other day and the pony at the end of it was the size of a pencil eraser. MY ENTIRE HAIR WIDTH. Whenever I see someone in pig tails I get this sick feeling in my stomach because I CAN NOT DO THAT. You can see my sock through my sock bun, OK. It’s bad.
It’s ruined my life. So I went to go see Donald in tears.
Even if your hair is thinning, there are things you can do! he tries.
WAHHHHHHHHHHHH! I sob.
I can not go bald. I know some people can rock it, like Kanye’s ex-stripper-ex-girlfriend, but I would be worse than Britney Spears. I would look like a 9 year old boy. Except I would probably have wrinkles by then too, because of all the anxiety (does anxiety cause wrinkles? Dunno.)
Let’s just see what we can do OK? Don’t be scared
Donald cuts off five inches.
The last time I had five inches cut off my hair it was the first day of school, grade 11. I spent the next YEAR looking like a poodle. The shorter my hair gets, the curlier it gets and I was like a fluffy mess of a show dog. It was awful. So yes, I am scared. But it needs to be done.
Donald evens me out so I no longer look stringy and lopsided.
Your ends actually look… quite thick” he says. “Much thicker than I thought… this isn’t bad!
“Isn’t bad” was once an insult, but now it’s got glowing Hallelujah’s surrounding it.
He finishes within the hour. I look… like I am not going bald.
The good news is… you still have a lot of hair he tells me your ends were thinning, but I think your hair is OK. You can walk out of here not stressing about it, because it looks good, and you can come back and see me in ten weeks.
My shoulders drop two inches and I smile. My hair looks healthy. Short, but healthy. And despite the fact my confidence has always been in proportion to the length of my hair, I feel really great. And this made me really sad.
My happiness should not be attributed to how good or not good I look on the outside. It should be attributed to the fact that I’m crazy about myself, balding or not (not, but still.) So, I’ve got to work on that. I mean, a haircut was mandatory maintenance, but it shouldn’t have affected my mood for the past three months like it did.
Also, I blame Disney for this entire thing, because they didn’t pay me enough to get my hair trimmed in Florida.
xo & yw