The bigger the hair, the closer to God

Getting my hair cut has become an adventure of sorts since I hit my 40s.

It’s not that I’m terribly picky or hard to please. It has more to do with the time I’m willing to take in the morning to get myself to a state where the majority of the free-thinking world would dub me presentable. And despite my stylist’s best intentions, I do have a tendency to take shortcuts.

This wasn’t always the case. In the eighties, my hair was a masterpiece of engineering, and it took the better part of 30 minutes to get that way. I’ll spare a detailed description of the process, but to give you an idea, it involved Dep gel, hot rollers and lots and lots of Aussie Mega Spritz. That’s right, baby. The grape-smelling mega-stick spray that wafted through high school hallways and college campuses for the better part of a decade. My bangs were teased to Jesus and my hair was large and in charge. I thought I was stunning. (The photo accompanying this post gives you an idea. Laureen, I’m sorry I had to bust you along with me.)

Fast forward to my 40s: I entered the salon last week knowing I was in trouble. I had let the time between haircuts go a bit too long, so my hair wasn’t so much styled as perched on my head, supported by a truckload of product. It wouldn’t survive my stooping to pick up a dropped pen, much less withstanding one of Minnesota’s wind gusts that are so prevalent this time of year.

So I was ready to face the music when Kayla (my “stylist” – that’s what you’re supposed to call them now) came into the salon lobby.

“Have you been using your flat iron?” she asked, not even bothering with a hello.

“Uh, well – not today, I was kind of in a rush this morning,” I answered.

She gave me a look that was a cross between admonishment and distaste, as if I had admitted to not bothering to brush my teeth. Spinning on her heel, she motioned me back to her chair.

“Let’s try something easier to manage – are you up for it?” she asked (as if I had a choice).

Kayla chatted her way through my pixy cut, confiding in me that she was going to get breast implants next week with the nonchalance of saying she was going to, say, the movies.

“Really?” My eyes widened and I began to feel a little guilty. I mean, this girl is willing to surgically enhance herself, and I can’t even find time to flat iron. I was also a little concerned. She's a nice kid.

“Yep,” she said. “It’s all outpatient and my friend is getting hers done, too.” (Again, with the casual tone of mentioning, perhaps, that they were going together to get a pedicure).

“I think you’re really going to like this cut,” she continued, without missing a beat. “It will be spunky and spiky and easy to take care of.”

Feeling a little defensive, I said, “You know, I used to have great hair,” sharing a more detailed description of the aforementioned process. “It was big,” I said of my hair. “But you have to remember, it was 1989.”

“Oh, WOW!” she said. “That’s, like, when I was born!”

Great. “Well, Kayla, it’s safe to say that your new boobs would have gotten in the way if you did my hair back then,” I told her.

She giggled. “Oh, you are such a riot, Karen.”

So that’s when it hit me – I’m now the middle-aged “funny” client with the “no-fuss” hair. (I know people who do hair, and I know how clients are classified. It’s safe to say I’m one step closer to the Friday “wash ‘n set” crowd. For the record, they don’t anything with their hair – for a week!

She finished with a flourish and spun me around. It’s short, to be sure. And sassy – but so am I.

I’m 41, and came to the conclusion a long time ago that I’m not a bombshell, so I don’t need bombshell hair. Or any of the work that comes with it. Maybe I’ll use the money I save in product to buy implants.

Yeah, probably not.