I know it will grow back, eventually. But right now I feel like an amputee.
Before Christmas of 2007, I decided to donate my hair to Locks of Love. It was traumatic to lose a 14-inch braid in two snips, but it was liberating too.
So I decided to become a hair farm. After 18 months, my noggin seemed ripe for the harvest.
On my way home tonight I stopped at Cost Cutters. “What could go wrong?” I asked myself. “We’re putting the hair into a braid and cutting it off.”
The removal of the braid went fine. I had only 10 inches to donate, but that’s enough. (Here’s a pic of the braid. Sorry it looks like a dead animal; I was having a bad hair day.)
Anyway, what ensued was a disaster. The stylist kept cutting and cutting in an effort to get both sides even. I asked her to stop, thinking it would be easier to hold my head sideways for six months.
But she persisted, and now I have a hideous grade-school bob. That looks like it was done with a potato-peeler. I guess it’s true what they say: You get what you pay for.
I’m trying to be zen about it, by thinking about the kid out there with no hair who will benefit from my donation. But zen only gets you so far when you look like a mangy manx cat.
Esteban has put on some Joni Mitchell (atta boy, E!) and he’s cooking me dinner.
You know what? Never mind. I’ve got nothing to complain about.
Over and out.