An Inch for Every Year Over Thirty

I was going to write a post about Fyodor backing out of our last flying excursion, the one scheduled for the day after my birthday, and my going to the Air and Space Museum to compensate. I was going to write about the planes and the interpretation of women aviators and the token interpretation of black aviators and so on and so forth. I have that post in draft, in fact; but, while at the Air and Space Museum, I encountered a horror.

One of those exhibits in the Air and Space Museum segues from aerial photography into the use of airplanes in spying. The exhibit had a hidden a camera in one of the displays so that, suddenly, you find yourself on a t.v. screen. There I saw it: myself, from outside of my self.

The horror. The hair horror.

Understand, I have not had an actual haircut since -- well, I forget exactly when, but it was somewhere around 2003. Maybe. Definitely before 2004. Even then, I was just keeping the ends trimmed as it grew from a really short pixie cut in 2001 into a bob by 2002. Since 2004, I've been trimming my own bangs and, when the back became too scruffy, just reaching behind and cutting off the worst part, or getting a friend to do the cutting. Otherwise, the hair just grew and grew and grew.

This was its length on Sunday morning:

From 2003 until Sunday, I mostly just ignored my hair, wearing it first in a French twist, then, when it became too long for even that, a bun. This was for convenience: I just put it up wet, and never had to spend a dime on a stylist. That last point was particularly important when I was dead broke. In any case, I saw my head like this every single day of the year since 2003 and thought nothing about it until the Air and Space Museum exhibit.

You know that out-of-body experience that you have you see a picture of yourself? You know those thoughts of "damn! Who is that old lady?" -- or chubby lady, or too skinny lady, or lady who wears that much make up, and so poorly applied -- and that "old lady" is you? Well, what I saw on that t.v. screen in the National Air and Space Museum was a visibly aging nerd girl who didn't give a second thought to her appearance. She styled herself just as she had when she was decades younger, but ended up looking decades older. The fact that her grey was showing did not help.*

For the rest of the week, that image of that aging nerd girl on the t.v. would not leave me alone. Some last vestige of my 18 year old self, some remaining scrap of girliness, asserted itself. "You cannot let yourself go like this!" it bitched. That part of me that watches Project Runway and Shear Genius (shut up! I'm intellectual 60 other hours of the week) judged, "You must do something!" Seriously, when those fundamentalist, polygamist wives from Texas have better hair than you do, it is time for an intervention of your inner fashion mavens.

So, I began to look about for a beauty parlor. Yes, I said it: "beauty parlor." Like your grandma visits. I wanted a "beauty parlor" because they would be cheap. Barber shops don't do girl hair and anything styling itself as a "salon" charges at least $50 for merely snipping their scissors. "Spas" are closer to $100. For that much, I want a massage included. Massages are that much extra. I won't pay more than $20 for a bob, which is what I wanted. It's a classic look. Plus, bobs are pretty difficult to fuck up, pretty simple to grow out, and can go a while before they desperately need a touch-up (which I tend to do).

This search for a beauty parlor, along with the search for the perfect picture of Katie Holmes and her cute bob (I no longer bother trying to explain Louise Brooks), consumed the better part of a week of my internet surfing. Finally, I found a low rent hair cutting place -- not quite a beauty parlor, but definitely not a salon -- that was fairly close. The cut cost $15.

They chopped off my braid first. It was a good foot long. There's an old adage that says that you should lose an inch of length on your hair for every year over age thirty. Frankly, that saying never made sense to me because it never made clear either the starting length or the stopping point. Somewhere along the line, you'd end up bald, wouldn't you? And what about regrowth during the year between inches? Leaving logic aside, I did, in fact, lose an inch for every year over thirty, plus one to grow on.

This is the braid:

It looks a bit like a severed body part, without the blood. (That's the stylist's hand, by the way. I could never have a French manicure like hers because I bite my nails.)

Originally, I had planned to donate the braid to the Pantene Beautiful Lengths program to make wigs for women and children who have lost their hair due to a medical condition. I liked Pantene's program better than Locks of Love, since Pantene seems to use their resources more efficiently. The salon, however, was already set up with Locks of Love, so I figured I'd just let them deal with the whole mailing and such. I'm lazy that way. I'm still hoping that someone gets to wear my hair on their head. It was pretty healthy hair.

My Katie Holmes picture quickly became moot. As the stylist began cutting, I was quickly reminded that my hair gets bigger as it gets shorter. Not an Afro or anything, just poof! Side to side poof! The sleek Katie Homes 'do would require a significant investment in product, and I'd still end up with a helmet head. So, I readjusted my expectations to Brideshead Revisited, or Anna Wintour, if you squint really hard and take off your glasses. We'll see how it looks as I get used to playing with it.

I think that might feel a little remorseful, a bit like Bernice when she bobbed her hair, but not much, really. I thought I was too old for this hair business; but I do believe that my hair and I have had the most enduring relationship of my life.

Edited (8/05/08) to add: Hair Today:

*For the record, I don't mind BEING gray. I do mind GOING gray. I look like I have just cleaned out the attic and have dust on my head when my gray shows. This is not dignified. I will, however, look spectacular when my head is finished graying. Meanwhile, the analogous effect is that of growing out a short hairstyle into a longer one, while covered with dust.