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Monday, December 14, 2015



     So I was in the self check-out line at CVS the other day, and when I was done I realized two things: One, that I hadn't  had a haircut in about a year, and Two, it turns out that the self-checkout line is for purchasing items, not checking yourself out, who knew.

     I secured an appointment at a salon on 57th Street near where I work to have my tresses shortened. I'm much more comfortable in a saloon than a salon, and I'm not used to having a guy wash my hair. He offered me a drink. There was soft music, sensual video, scalp massaging, there was shampooing, there was conditioning... It seemed like I might be dating the guy. I told him, "Why are we spending so much time on this hair? It's going to be sitting on the floor over there in ten minutes."

     Am I supposed to tip him? I decide against it- I never tipped anybody I went on a date with. Well, except once, but that was a special occasion. All this attention was starting to make me feel a little bit girly, but maybe it was just hormones.

     If I was feeling girly, cutting my hair was against my Rule No. 98, which says that 85% of all women look best with shoulder-length hair. I've done several studies on this matter, and I'm pretty confident in these numbers. 10% wear long hair best, and about 3% can get away with short hair. That leaves a couple percent for the wildcard factor, which includes Sinead O'Connor with her bald look, Princess Leia with the reverse snail shell situation, or Bo Derek with those dreadlocks.

     Every once in a while one of those 85 percenters goes haywire and cuts her hair short, and her hairdresser is practically slobbering over her telling her how great she looks, and she either has to believe what he is telling her or admit to herself that she wasted $120 bucks. So she shows up at work beaming, asking everybody, "So? What do you think???" And before any of the guys can chime in and say they kind of liked it better before, another girl in the office vaults herself onto her lap and gushes, "OMIGOD!! I LOVE it!" And the guys have to hold their tongues or risk office disharmony.

     "It's so low maintenance!" She raves, as if she was a 2010 Toyota Corolla. The hairstyle is called a "bob," and I wonder how it got its name. It's possible that some model in the 1960s (who no doubt looked better with shoulder-length hair) chopped her hair off in a fashion-forward frenzy, and a guy at the agency chimed in: "You know who you look like now? Bob!" (And he points over at Bob, who doesn't look so happy about the comparison either.)

     Anyway, my stylist combed all my hair forward so that I looked like Cousin Itt, then started snipping away. Soon I looked more and more like Wednesday Addams, but on the negative side, as the hair was falling in front of my face I inhaled most of it. I like to think my hair even looks great inside me, because inner beauty is most important to me.

     I told him that he could contribute my hair to Locks of Love, the wonderful charity that makes hairpieces for children who have suffered medical conditions that cause them to lose their hair. He said he could not, because you need ten inches to make a donation. I told him that ten inches seems like a tall order. I didn't think it was necessary for him to add that not that many children would look great with my gray hair.

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