Insanity runs in my family — it practically gallops! — Mortimer Brewster, Arsenic and Old Lace
I don’t yet entirely know where this post is coming from, or what it might come to say. It’s part sheer impulse — after talking about blogs today, I realized that I hadn’t written in a long time, and that I’d been wanting to write, even if I don’t have anything much to write about. It’s part late-night restlessness — I was quite drowsy for awhile this evening, but I stayed awake a moment too long and was stricken by that untoward type of wakeful energy which is ever elusive when called for, yet punctiliously present when sleep seems willingly at hand.
I went to the hair salon Monday, for the first time in almost two years. My hair was, at that time, extremely long. I asked for something shoulder-length, requiring no maintenance, with nothing fancy going on except perhaps a few layers to keep it from getting too tangly when it grows out again. I forgot how deeply I dislike having my hair cut and styled. It started with a superfluous shampoo — I had washed my hair before arriving, and it was still wet when the appointment began. At least the shampoo felt good on my scalp. Then came the cut, which didn’t take long. That part always worries me, since I’m nothing more than a fuzzy blob in the mirror without my glasses on, and I can’t really tell what’s going on. Then came about half an hour of styling — the absolute worst part of an already unpleasant process. My poor hair was blown dry (something that hasn’t happened to it in longer than I can remember), then rolled and straightened and sprayed with all manner of nonsense. Indeed, the hairdresser even stooped so low as to tease portions of my hair to give it false volume — I find teasing particularly loathsome. When all was said and done, she threw my glasses on (at which point it was far too late to ask her to change much), then charged me way too much money and sent me home.
It wasn’t the hairdresser’s fault — in fact, I even gave her a tip, as she was rather kind and not at all inclined to the type of drudging, insubstantial chit-chat that normally accompanies such appointments. It was, perhaps, my fault — I should have known that I’ve rarely had a salon haircut that I found at all satisfying. And when my housemate cut my hair last summer, I was more than pleased with the results. Needless to say, yesterday’s cut didn’t work for my no-maintenance life, and although I spent all day today trying to convince myself that I liked it after all, I just didn’t.
And that was when it happened. I came into my room, looked in the mirror, and something snapped. I grabbed my trusty purple scissors that I use to cut yarn while crocheting. I became the toddler, left alone for five minutes, who just discovered that those sharp shiny things could reach her hair. Clip, snip, snip, clippity clip.
There’s a pile of hair in my floor, and the chin-length hair that’s left on my head definitely looks like I cut it myself. Having never cut hair in my life, I managed to make something like long-ish side bangs. The line around the bottom is almost certainly not even, especially in the back, which I haven’t seen yet, haha. It’s a bit choppy, and not always blended especially well. And it *might* look a little like the drooping, indecisive hairdo of some mousy side character on a 1970’s sitcom. But you know what? I like it. A lot.
When I first started clipping away and watching my hair fall to the floor I thought, “I’m insane. This is going to look ridiculous.” When I finished, I realized that even if it does look ridiculous (though I modestly submit that it looks alright enough), my moment of insanity was not the one in which I cut off my own hair. It was, rather, the one in which I wasted thirty perfectly useful dollars on something that I both dislike and that is, after all, entirely unnecessary.
Now, I don’t mean to bash hairdressers or salons — they’re simply not my personal cup-of-tea. But how often do we make such similarly insane decisions for the sake of convenience or indulgence or simple apathy? My gallbladder is very, very ill, and it often causes me pain. It would be sane to lessen the pain by ignoring my cravings and limiting my food intake to the very best of vegetables, nuts and seeds, and low-sugar fruits. Sunday afternoon I ate a whole (albeit quite small) carton of dairy-free ice cream. I am insane.
Anyhow, I’m awake much, much later now than I intended — yet another temporary insanity, perhaps. 🙂 This was going somewhere, and I think I pretty much got there in some sense, though the exposition grows ever more halting and inadequate. Yes, that untoward energy — where did it go when called for? Perhaps I’ll edit this tomorrow and make more sense of it, but if not, I’ll leave it in much the same state as the raggedy edges of my newly-shorn mop of hair.