[Critique Group 1] Marcia's November submission

[Marcia Wick]

A Hairy Tale

Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters

November 2019

Word Count:  1003

 

"Your haircut is cute," I heard from a stranger in line at the checkout
counter. Ever since I "cut my hair off" a year ago, I receive frequent
unsolicited compliment on my short style from unfamiliar clerks, friends who
haven't seen me in a while, and family members who see me often. 

 

"It makes you look younger," some say. "It suits your face perfectly,"
according to others. "Keep it like that," many add.

 

The thing is, no one has cared one way or the other about my hair for the
past 60 years. I've worn it shaggy, long and straight, with and without
bangs, parted on the side and messy with no part at all. The most I ever
heard was, "Oh, you got a haircut" or "Oh, your hair has grown."

 

For decades, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror wrapping my hair in
spongy curlers, winding strands around hot rollers, turning ends over and
under with a curling iron, and smoothing the waves with a blow dryer. During
the course of a normal day, I would duck into the women's room at every
chance to check the condition of my hair. I paid too much at exclusive
salons for trendy cuts; I spent nothing and neglected my hair for years at a
time; I hid my unwashed hair under ball caps and knit caps and swimming
caps; I lifted my hair into pony tails and twisted it into French braids; I
collected quite an assortment of clips, ties, ribbons, and doo dads to
decorate my mane for special occasions. Once, I experimented with changing
the color of my mop. Let me just say, I'll never do that again! I suffered
through weeks of orange before it returned to it's natural brown. 

 

These days, I don't pay much attention to how my hair looks since I can't
see myself in a mirror anyway. I'm told it's mostly grey now. Despite my
years, it still feels thick and soft - perhaps because I only colored it
that one time. Now that I'm in my 60s, it's beginning to thin. That's the
reason a year ago that I decided to cut it all off. 

 

My youngest daughter, my wild child, had been begging me to do "something
fun" with it for years. Having lost most of my sight as I aged, I asked my
daughter to pull up some photos of cute short styles that I could show to my
trusty barber at Great Clips. 

 

"I'm going for short-short," I told her. I couldn't imagine how my hair
might behave when 18 inches of weight was lifted off my shoulders, but I was
ready for the change. 

 

"Jamie Lee Curtis," my daughter suggested. With low vision, I had no idea
what the actress looked like. 

 

"Send me the link so I can pull up a picture of her on my phone, I asked
her. The day before my appointment, I opened my phone and shared the
photograph of this glamorous movie star with my 70-year-old husband. 

 

"She looks geriatric," he said. I "googled" Jamie and discovered in fact
that she is only three years younger than me! Who knew? Still, I decided not
to trust my husband's opinion. I had once asked him to match some earrings
to my dress, but when my lady friend arrived to pick me up, she suggested
something different. 

 

"Purple doesn't really work with green," she commented. 

 

So, I proceeded with Jamie Lee's picture on my phone to the franchise where
my new look would only cost nine dollars with a coupon. 

 

"What do you think?" I showed the photo to my hair dresser, a woman of about
my age. "My husband doesn't like short hair, and he thinks it looks
geriatric," I added. 

 

"What about a bob?" she suggested. 

 

"No way," I protested. "I have to wear hats outside because of the glare, so
my hair would stick out like Bozo, the clown!" My trusted and skilled barber
coaxed me to sit. 

 

"I'll give you a cute cut," she promised. Luckily, I couldn't see the
handful of hair that fell to the floor with the first snip. 

 

"Oh, can I save it and donate it?" I thought to ask. One of the other ladies
on hand rummaged in a drawer for an envelope.

 

"It's pre-addressed. You just have to apply postage," she said as she
scooped my long locks into a plastic bag before slipping the bag into the
envelope. 

 

My stylist continued to cut away. She was getting closer and closer to my
ears. "Snip, snip." I shivered. As the stylist combed, the little scissors
shaped and blended what hair remained with speed. Then, she took a razor to
my exposed neck, tilting my head down for a better angle. I sat as still as
possible, but my skin began to prickle with the miniscule shavings that
spread like nats on a summer night. With a warm blower, my hair lady
attempted to clean me up, then she whisked the plastic cape off of me with a
"voila!" 

 

Delighted by the feel of freedom, I shook my head enjoying the loss.
Forgetting for a moment, the hair dresser held up the hand mirror for me to
take a closer look at my new do, then she remembered. 

 

"It looks great, doesn't it?" she asked my husband instead. 

 

I already knew I couldn't trust his opinion. He took a picture with his
phone to compare the "before" to the "after." Within seconds, he'd had sent
the photo out to most everyone in our family. 

 

"I'll find out now what it really looks like," I thought. 

 

As I said at the beginning of this hairy story, the compliments have never
stopped coming since I was transformed into Jamie Lee Curtis.actually, with
my short hair, my sisters think that I look like our mother now. Dear Old
Dad with dementia also mistakes me for his wife who passed two years ago. I
take that as the best compliment of all.

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