Haircut aftermath

The semi-annual haircut has taken place, and in spite of having the same hairdresser, the same source material, and the same time-slot (allowing for possible changes in lighting, crowdedness and din of salon), the end result was underwhelming.

Although I presented the below hair-spiration:

I wound up with this:


And while such a go-get-em, power to ovaries haircut might suit someone as high-flying and fond of reinvention as Gwyneth, it does not suit my retiring, non-ground-breaking personality. Gywneth's "Sliding Doors" haircut is a fashion-leap made only by women at the peak of confidence; usually post-nuptials, or post-breakup, and fanned by hyperbolic girlfriends. It also reminds me of the insta-glam "Us Weekly"/"New Idea" look Olympic swimmers often wind up with after they win a medal and become famous. It's a look I patriotically term the angry echidna.

Much like Liesel Jones, I just go out there every day to do the best I can, and make my mum proud. And really, my life is quite normal.

But it did get me thinking about the futility of cutting hair, as alluded to by Tom Stoppard in his incomparable "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead." The haircut, anticipated months in advance, is the venerate "Godot" we are all waiting for; the haircut that will right wrong relationships, communicate a more positive you to the world, and absolve genetic/spot problems with the chin and jaw area (i.e. definition, lack thereof). The haircut allows an individual the chance to transcend their normal Olympic lives, and posit briefly the idea of "denying death" through the immortality a great cut bestows upon its wearer (see Ernest Becker, Jennifer Aniston).

However, things go awry quickly, having reached the salon. First, one is forced to confront their material self in a full-length mirror, while seated thighs first toward it, much like Atreyu must confront his true self in the Magic Mirror Gate on the way to the Southern Oracle.


Having faced and conquered small foreheads and pink complexions, you may then continue on to the "color" portion of the appointment. This is a crap shoot, as your head is covered in foil for the duration, and then you are whisked away from the Mirror to a hot rocket hat while the dye "develops." Then comes the creepy head massage. Then the haircut. At this point, even if you are aware that a hairdresser is taking liberties with the chopping of hair, there is nothing that you can do, no sound you can utter to undo a cut too short. Once it is happening, you have boarded the flight to Heathrow, and there is no letting you off until you hit the faux-Pommy accent and start dating John Hannah.


At this point, all that is left for you to do is acquiesce the ghastly charge for this service, and carry your Kate Gosselin Halloween wig do out into the world with the confidence of a newly married pair of ovaries.