George Clooney

It's spring in Riverside, spring with a vengence. Birds singing, flowers blooming, all that good stuff. With warm weather comes the need to expunge the excess and be filled with light.

My target: my hair. Each day, I would think: too long. For a few practical weeks, I was considering a very short bob and actually going to a hairdresser, rather than sawing away at my hair myself, as per usual. I didn't go and didn't go and as time passed, I started thinking, why not get it all cut off, like Sabrina? (I blame that film for many hair cut decisions.)

Yesterday, I went to a fancy salon, armed with a photo (of longish short hair) and shored up with determination. An hour later, I looked like George Clooney (think ER days).

In high school, I got my hair cut and the beautician cut off more than I was anticipating. I disolved into a puddle of tears. I wept and wept and would not be comforted. I was finally dragged to the back of the store and given a box of tissues and a free cut. My aunt who accompanied me was mortified.

Yesterday, I shrugged my shoulders and then did some shopping and some cleaning.

So am I less vain now? Or is high school really more brutal than anything that comes after? Or is there a duller reason? Have all those bad hair cuts in the past kept me from getting emotionally involved?

Actually, I'm not even sure I hate the cut. It's short. It's different. It's no fuss. And I appreciate how fast I can dry my hair. I am, however, looking forward to a longer version of the cut--the version in the photo.