Hairy Scary

There are a many things in life that are scary. But other than a full blown zombie apocalypse, there is nothing more frightening to me than getting a haircut.

You think it would be simple, right? A sharp pair of scissors, a good mirror, all the necessary spray goop and heated hand tools... A clear photograph of your expected outcome... and a person you trust with your life smashing your sore neck into a shampoo bowl and spinning you in an hydraulic chair till you feel like the teacup ride on carnival night.

But, you see, the real problem lies in the fact that there are no hairstylists on the planet Earth that you can trust with your life. You know why? Because YOU, my friend, are their guinea pig. You are their Frankenstein. Their lab experiment. Their empty canvas. Their evil laugh-of-the-day when you walk out looking like a freak - and they pocket a wad of your money with a heartless flip of their purple Mohawk.

Sorry. I don't mean to offend anyone. It's just that in all my 57  middle aged   seasoned years of breathing and growing hair, I have yet to find a sensitive and talented soul that can transform my head cap into something beautiful, manageable, sexy and fun. How hard can it be? For heaven's sake, I'm not asking for a face lift, plastic surgery or an instant weight loss! I just want to be able to travel frequently in public places without a hoodie, hat, or scarf. I want to be able to greet strangers with a confident and hair-winning smile. I want to run into old high school friends and smugly display my no-gray, perfectly coiffed doo while they secretly smolder with envy that my head no longer looks like a wet groundhog.

I want to look into the mirror without gagging, run my fingers through my hair without losing a few fingers, and wake up with the confidence of a woman who has defied the horror of hair. Wouldn't life just be so much sweeter if your hair was always shiny, groomed, stylish and picture-perfect?

Alas, life is not perfect. And those much-needed hairstyle goddesses have yet to be created up in Beauty Shop Heaven. And until they are, we must make do with what scissorhanded talent is forced upon us.

Which brings me back to the really, really scary part. I'm getting my hair butchered  hacked  trimmed
this afternoon by a stranger I have never met with a comb I have never touched. And all I am armed with is a fuzzy picture of some movie star that is 30 years younger, 50 pounds thinner and 10 million dollars richer than I am. I can barely afford the $25. I do not have the luxury of flopping on a real-hair, high-dollar wig if Lizzie Borden decides to go a little crazy with the hair hatchet.

And, face it, ladies. There is nothing worse than staring into that giant, crystal clear and brutally honest mirror while your hair is wet, your make-up is missing, and you're about to crap your pants because you fear for your pitiful pompadour. I see the dread and doubt staring back at me. The hollow eyes that search for answers, the wrinkled brow that hopes for mercy, the weakened instinct in me that shouts, "Get out of that chair, NOW !". I tremble. Become teary-eyed. Regret I ever made the call. The appointment. The agreement to be a test subject for a hair laboratory.

So, if you pass someone horrific in the grocery aisle or stopped at the light on Main Street, DO NOT PANIC. The zombie apocalypse has not begun.

It's just me. With my new doo.