Adventures in Hairstyling - Part One

It started, like most misadventures from my past, with a simple sentence -

"How hard can it be?"

Now, I was used to hearing this sentence come out of Natius' mouth. And the sentence often dealt with some sort of car repair or Fat Jeff Challenge.

I was unaccustomed to hearing it from Jenny.

I looked at her as steadily as I could, keeping calm, as the lessons I had learned regarding bear attacks flashed through my mind. But it was too late. She smelled the fear.

"What's the matter? Don't you trust me?"

I tried to relate my position on the matter. Not that she wasn't already aware.

I am obsessed with my hair. Not in the sit-in-front-of-the-mirror-with-a-blowdryer-and-gobs-of-gel kind of way but more in the way that I think I look ridiculous and avoid haircuts at all costs.

I suppose it relates a lot to the way I'm a perfectionist. Not the "good" kind - the kind of person that just has to do something perfect and keeps trying until that is achieved. No... I'm the kind of person that feels like it has to be done perfectly and if I don't think that can be accomplished, I just don't bother with it.

Yeah, like that.

So, I put off haircuts as long as I can most times, readily accepting the fact that with each passing month I look more and more ridiculous. It also gets worse as my hair mysteriously becomes more and more curly/wavy with each passing year.

Computer estimated appearance of me at age 60.

The end result of all this is that I end up with what appears to be a giant wig on my head after a couple months. Yet, for some unexplainable reason, I still resist getting a haircut.

So, there we are, sitting in the living room. Jenny daring me to let her have a go at the mop residing on top of my head.

For some reason, as a way of entertaining the thought, I asked her what she was planning to cut my hair with should I decide to give in to her demands. She disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and then emerged, wielding a giant hairbrush and a tiny pair of toenail scissors.

I coughed and choked out a response about how she had to be kidding. She shook her head solemnly and again insisted that she was up to the task. I pointed out that she didn't even have a comb and she disappeared for another moment, popping back into view and telling me she now had a comb.

It wasn't a comb.

It was just a smaller brush.

The "tools"

Needless to say, I wasn't too keen on the idea.

She continued to push, insisting I could trust her. She chose to start arguing logic (or a close relative of logic), pointing out that I was planning to get my hair cut anyway and it was quite long so I could always get it fixed the next morning if necessary.

I started out strong and resistant but gradually weakened.

Next thing I knew, I was outside on our balcony, towel wrapped around my neck, and water being brushed into my hair.

Snip. Snip.

It began.

I wanted to cry.

But I am strong.

"Are you grumpy?"

I shook my head no, trying to conceal how upset I was about getting tricked into the chair. How did I let this happen to me? Why am I convinced to do stupid things so easily?

I loudly pointed out that the hair falling into my lap was much longer than the one centimeter we had agreed upon. Looking at me calmly as one would a four-year-old, she asked if I wanted her to just stop. I quietly shook my head and let her continue.

My main concern was that I was going to be angry. See, I had planned on being angry anyway... after I went to a barbershop. But now she was cutting my hair. Sure, I was planning to go to a barber the next day. But now I was afraid I wouldn't be mad at the barber. No, I was feeling pretty sure I would still be mad at her after the barber. Because now it would be her fault I had to go to the barber to get a bad haircut.

Really, it's all because I'm crazy.

But that doesn't change anything.

So, I sat. And moped. And pouted. And waited for it to be awful.

And in the end...

It wasn't bad.

Of course, I was still going to get a regular haircut.

But that's another story altogether...