Lady Godiva (or what I did with my new hair)

My sincere apologies to all who believe this to be a ridiculous topic. You are probably men. There is nothing that binds women together like a good discussion about hair.



I got my haircut last night. I am not someone who plans these things ahead. I do not have a monthly or bimonthly standing appointment. I just wake up one morning, look in the mirror and know there will be no peace on my earth until I have had it cut. That is how my day started. For most men, the need for a haircut is not a matter of much concern. They get in the car, head to the barber and that is it. For me, it is a bit more complex. I like to go to a certain place - a place that offers me a cup of tea, a place that smells like botanical heaven instead of harsh chemicals, a place where they ask a lot of questions and consider your hair needs as if they were among the most serious on the planet. That place happens to be an hour's drive away. It is an experience I like to enjoy on my own, although I have experienced it with a child on my lap or a child sitting off to the side. My point is, it takes a small miracle to coordinate - to have the time, to have the kids cared for, to get an appointment.



And so I panicked when I woke up yesterday. Steve has a busy week - much of it to be spent in Albany. This weekend is already booked. Next week, he is away. Alex was home sick with a cough. Cate had gymnastics and swimming. A small backhoe was working outside my living room window, a rusty steel septic tank rotting into the ground, a gigantic new plastic one sitting near by. My car was in the garage. No one answered when I called the salon. Hair care seemed to be an out-of-reach goal, something way off in the horizon. I considered sitting down and writing the lyrics to a bad new country song.



But then the stars aligned. Steve's schedule would free up around dinner. Someone answered at the salon and there was an appointment open at six. By early evening, I was off.



It is amazing how a bit of time with an expert hair stylist can transform a person. I went in feeling like a run down mother of small children with bad, bad hair. Bad hair. Try to look down, consider wearing a baseball cap even though I look weird in baseball caps hair. I left two hours later feeling sleek - soft, shiny hair that I have never achieved on my own - the kind of hair that falls softly to the side while sipping a glass of Cabernet over a candlelit table, the kind that falls gently forward when reaching to pick up a crying child - the kind that can go out on a humid day and still look and feel like lovely silk. That was my satisfying, wonderful hair.

Of course, by that point it was eight o'clock at night. I had an hour's drive home. Steve would probably have fallen asleep putting the kids to bed. Even if any friends could be called and asked to meet me out for a glass of wine so my hair could fall just so to the side as I took a sip, it was a Monday night in Cooperstown. Nothing would be open. And so, I went home, looked once in the mirror and sat down at the computer to work.

I went to bed at midnight. Alex appeared shortly thereafter and coughed all night. At some point in the darkness he started talking about Shrek. I imagined by new hair and I had stayed up late into the night, enjoying the kind of intense movie critiquing banter one might enjoy as a Woody Allen character. At 6:15 a.m., we gave up. Ahh, many moons have passed since I last stayed up talking all through the night, greeting the first golden rays of dawn. In my imaginary hair world, I imagined it was the hair - the hair that had charmed this young man into staying up all night.

I went into the bathroom to put in my contacts and brush my teeth. Alex, who knew nothing of the hair appointment, saw only that it was sticking up on one side. "Your hair looks like a cat's butt," he said. I thanked him and reminded him that we do not use the word, "butt."

We crawled downstairs and tried to light a fire to ward off the damp morning chill. I tried to keep my botanically pleasing hair from soaking up the scent of woodsmoke. I wanted the day - just the day to smell essence of lavender and lemongrass as my hair swirled around my head. I drank six cups of coffee in about six minutes and put in my new a.m. yoga DVD - twenty minute routines that promised to bring balance to the start of my day. Alex sat patiently behind me on the couch, critiquing my poses as I tried to focus on my breath and the hair falling delightfully, smoothly into my face.

Steve came down stairs as I attempted triangle pose. "You got a haircut," he said. "Cute." A huge compliment after a largely sleepless night.

Alex is home sick again. No morning drop off. No one at all to notice the new hair. No women to remark on how great it looks. Nothing. Nothing but a new 1,000 gallon septic tank and two weeks worth of undone laundry to tackle now that we are free to generate waste water again. I should feel grateful. It is a damp, misty morning, not at all good for maintaining straight and glossy hair unless you happen to be Cate.

But for today, I will be happy. My hair will fall delightfully just so as I fold towels. Essence of lavender whirling all around me will bring calm peace as a sleepless Alex falls into inevitable grouchiness and bored Cate follows me about looking for activity.

Tonight I'll put on the Gypsy Kings. We'll make tacos and margaritas, pretend we're in Mexico and celebrate Cinco de Mayo. I would never catch swine flu with hair like this.