I’ve been going to the same hair salon for, I think, about 11 years. And the same stylist for probably seven or so — I’ve lost count exactly. But, it’s a long time. Needless to say, my stylist knows me — and my story — very well.
For the most part — save a couple of years when I was kidding myself — my hair’s been short. I like it short. I feel the most “me” when it’s short. Through single-hood and wedded bliss, weight gain and weight loss (and weight gain), pregnancies and motherhood, loss and success, I’ve always felt the most confident when my hair’s as short as it can go without becoming bald.
So, I’m a regular every-four-weeker for my hair cuts and every 7 to 10 days for my eyebrow wax (I can’t help if I’m furry!). Well, lately, as the salon gets busier and my time gets more precious, it’s been harder and harder to find an appointment time that works with my schedule and on my timeline.
This week, I tried a new stylist at a new salon. It can be scary going to a new stylist:
What if she’s scared to take my hair as short as I like it? (Trust me, it’s happened a lot.)
What if she makes my eyebrows too thin?
What if she talks too much?
What if …
What if …
What if …
Well, let me tell you: it was a wonderful experience! She talked exactly enough. She cut my hair perfectly short. And I am the proud owner of two neatly trimmed — but just right — eyebrows.
And the best part? She didn’t know my whole story. Because I’ve chosen to live my life in a little bit of a public way — at least some bits — and I try to be very honest in my sharing, it’s hard to live my daily routine (that’s pretty, well, routine) without someone knowing at least a bit of my tale. But, not when I went to the new salon. I wasn’t the woman with the tragic story. I was just the woman taking a one-hour break to get her hair done.
Now, don’t get me wrong — I love talking about Penelope Joy and sharing memories about my dad. And everything that’s happened to me is so very important to who I am. That story, tragic as some parts may seem, has brought me to a place in my life where I find myself happy, content and loved. But, for once, it was nice to just be another mom talking about her job, her husband and the silly things her daughter does. It was nice, for one hour, to just be … me. Short hair and all.