Today is my hair appointment day. My hair has become the coat (or hat, I guess) of many colors . . . and many textures. I’ve decided that my stylist is a genius. Every two months or so, I go to her, wanting the exact same look, yet every time I go to her, I feel like I am bringing her a different head of hair to work with. My grays are popping out like weeds these days. When I pull one out, six more arrive, the next day, in revenge. Lately I feel like my real hair is like a clearance, bargain wig. It looks like it is a mish-mash of whatever hair they had left to work with, all sewn together, trying to create a semblance of order, but failing miserably. I’m not brave enough to stop coloring, so I honestly have no idea what my natural hair looks like anymore. I haven’t seen it in years . . . . decades, actually. I’ve always loved my stylist, but the older I get, the more dependent on her, I’ve become. She is one of my lifelines. She is one of my “emergency numbers.” All of you middle-aged women understand this, I know. Tell your stylist your love him or her today. They truly are the wizards of our lifetime. They transform us into “us” at least five times a year, no matter what materials we bring them to work with and at the same time, pretend like is a piece of cake.
