Forty Dollar Hair, or How CAN It Be, When I’m So Bad?

It didn’t cost that much, but I’m a big tipper these days. That’s the only part of this story that makes me look good, but let’s keep moving.

I can’t give the exact date, but I’ve been letting my hair grow for 9 or 10 years. I always wanted to, but it never worked out in Texas, Arkansas, or Maryland, either because of humidity or downright cultural antipathy, but northern New Mexico was something else: cool, dry, and tolerant. You know the rest, but I’ve never been satisfied. Taos is the only place I’ve ever been where long hair is protective coloration, too. I mean, there could be a hunting season here on long gray ponytails. It’s kind of awful, really.

But I mostly did like the way I looked, regardless. Well, sort of. I never enjoyed the way it looked all tied up. I felt like a bad rental car. If I let it hang down, there was this raised-by-wolves vibe. Now, I do favor that, but it scared my wife. I think it was the split ends.

“Why not see a professional and have it trimmed? It looks so raggedy.”

But I always rather liked the split ends. At least I thought I did. Plus, it seemed natural to me. Whatever the hair wanted to do, was proper. Okay, there was the raised-by-wolves thing. But this is where I thought I was coming from, defending perceived style. The real reason was that every woman from Delilah to my mother to my poor wife is out to GET me and OPPRESS me and CUT OFF MY BALLS when they start telling me what to do.

Even I had doubts, though. I was tired of nothing ever changing, even more of looking like every other shuffling ancient Anglo dweeb in the supermarket checkout line. So I finally “caved,” passive-aggressive all the way. I made an appointment at a place my wife likes, and all the world rejoiced. The night before, I decided to cancel in the morning and not go.

The announcement, delivered in my bathrobe when I emerged from the bedroom, could have gone lots better.

“Why don’t you at LEAST go and get it TRIMMED???”

With steam coming out of my ears, I sat still as a prisoner and finally said I would. There are times and there are times, and this was down to the nub. I would see what I would see and in the end go psycho anyway. The ancient primal bozo. (The balls.)

I reached the salon without murdering anyone. A brave young woman gave me a split ends demo in front of the mirror. I said I liked the way they looked, which meant I was obviously insane. She went on to point out issues of structural integrity, how such-and-such had broken off just short enough to stab me in the eye. (Why, yes, how did she know?) Good God, she was using engineering on me! It all made… sense.

“Okay, you sold me,” I declared.

I was never getting out alive anyway, and the intelligence was solid. She would “go in” and cut out was was damaged, keeping as much length as possible. It sounded like a surgical strike, and I was good with that.

The result surprised me greatly…

I still have long hair, but it looks… better. Especially when it’s loose! I still look like I was raised by wolves, only these were really cool wolves. I can let it fly without ducking bricks in deepest mind space. My wife likes it. (And she didn’t split while I was gone—okay, I did have the car.)

One thing led to another. That afternoon I had a strange sensation. It was as if everything was… all right. Not just me, but everything.

“John, everything IS all right!”

“Really?”

[resigned shaking of head…]

The nub is indeed nigh. Nub, nub, da rub.

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