I need a hair intervention

For the last two nights, I’ve had terrible dreams about my hair.

In the first dream, I’ve chopped the hair off the back of my head, leaving the top fairly long. In the second, I’ve done the opposite, nearly shaving off the top mop, leaving a disturbing mullet.

What does it all mean?

“It’s probably all about change,” Scott said over breakfast. “There’s a lot going on in your life right now and I know you hate change.”

It is true. I’ve just turned 55, I’m about to be a grandma and I’m starting a new magazine for some people in France.

But that can’t be it.

I’m an early adapter. I love change.

It’s what makes the world interesting.

Nope. I think the dream is really about my hair.

I mean, look at it.

It’s halfway down my back but I have new growth on top that sticks up like a Donald Trump combover in a wind storm.

After a workout, my hair is practically standing up straight in the air.

It’s horrendous.

Truth is, I’m terribly afraid of hairdressers. To me, they’re like the dentist, someone who can legally do physical harm and charge you an arm and a leg for it.

I’ve had some horrendous haircuts, the worst at the hands of a hairdresser at Rinaldo’s.

For years, I wore a predictable bob cut. This time, I went in, just before Christmas, and asked for the usual.

The snooty feller tut-tutted and said this:

“Let’s try something different, shall we?”

I was against it, but I figured if I was going to fork out a week’s wages for a ‘do, I might as well get the full Monty. So I gave in.

Big mistake.

The asshole might as well have been working for the Marines.

Or the L Word.

I came out with a crew cut.

I was stunned.

And I was broke.

Another time, my long-time hairdresser sat me down, again at Christmas time, and offered me a grog, or whatever it’s called in Danish. Half-way through his styling, I realized that Fleming was pissed drunk. He was actually weaving with the scissors.  

My head paid the price.

In both cases, I was so stunned I didn’t say anything.

I felt like calling in the Special Hairdressers’ Victims Unit for counselling.

Now, I’m just cheap.

I have long hair and I have to pay at least $15  at First Choice to get a trim —  which takes the hairdresser six minutes exactly.

I can do the same thing over the bathroom sink in ten seconds and it looks just as good. Nobody is the wiser.

But this new growth hair is starting to disturb me. It’s like my hair is possessed.

I’m having to resort to baseball caps, which is not a good look for woman in late middle age.

And it’s giving me nightmares.

I’m afraid one day I’ll wake up and I’m one of the jokesters in FUBAR.

It’s so bad, I couldn’t even get a job as an extra on Trailer Park Boys (unless I was the stunt double for Mr. Lahey.)

Clearly, I’m in need of a hair intervention.



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