Bad Haircut

A few weeks ago, I got a terrible haircut. Truly, awful. The stylist was jet lagged from a recent trip to Taiwan, was therefore distracted, and cut one half of my hair three inches shorter than the rest, unbeknownst to me. He turned me away from the mirror, curled my hair, then continued cutting.

Once I’d showered at home, I realized, in horror, that some pieces clung to the side of my ear, while other pieces stuck out perpendicularly from my head.  It looked worse than when I tried to give myself a bang trim at age six. Embarrassment then anger welled within me, thinking of all the presentations and graduations and weddings on the calendar, all the events for which I would now, thanks to this haircut, present like a messy, wet dog, a portrait that would be memorialized in multiple family photo albums. “Jack! Show me where that Google review button is!” I shouted from our bedroom…

…but then, I remembered and laughed: hair grows back, especially when you’re a young woman in her twenties, who mixes powdered gelatin into her morning coffee and takes too many vitamins to count.

This world is chaotic and confusing, but some problems are solvable. With time, at least, and in this case, the old standby: the ponytail. So I, with my bad haircut, have been enjoying the spring, watching all the things, big and small, grow again.