Humbled

It's been a couple of days and I think I'm able to now write about this.  It still gives me a lump in my throat, and all the while I'm embarrassed to admit how much it truly affected me.  I was devastated, completely in a funk and unable to show my face...all because of a bad haircut.

I got it cut on Friday, just a trim but added some bangs.  That was the plan, but my hair stylist had other ideas.  I've used this woman before and have been very happy.  I'm not certain if it was because of a language barrier in what I was telling her or if she had been possessed by Jezebel, but she decided to give me some serious layers in the back.  Serious layers.  No joking as these things were not to be ignored, unbelievable and unexplainable.  Let's just say I felt like Jon Bon Jovi in the '80s.  It was bad.

I knew it was bad when I left the salon and called my friend Nancy who I knew would tell me the truth.   Her words gave me no comfort, "It's kinda cute, but let's call my next-door neighbor who is also a stylist to see if she can fix you."  Another snip-snip in Nancy's kitchen, with words like "bad" and "grow" and facial expressions which would scare even the bravest souls left me with no hope.  I wet it, dried it, styled it.  Terrible.  Wet it, dried it, styled it.  Awful.  There was no hope.

So I put on a baseball cap, 'cause I had places to go.

I wore that sucker all night, had nightmares that night of my husband trying to steal my cap from me, and put it right back on the next morning.  No one saw my hair.  I couldn't even look.  I cried and cried.  It made me more upset than I ever thought I would be.  I did not think I was a vain person and I thought hair is just an accoutrement to the beauty of a person.  Bad haircuts happened to many of my friends and I just poo-pooed them for being silly.  Hair grows, get over it!

Now I truly know how I feel.  My hair is an extension of me.  When it looks bad, I feel bad.  Bad hair days are real and it's can really ruin my day.  I hate I feel this way because I want to believe I am loved for the person I am on the inside, not what my hair looks like or what size jeans I wear.  The fact is we all judge people by what they look like before we even try to know the person.  If a person looks disheveled, I am most likely not to strike up a conversation.  It kills me to say it, because I want my children to learn more about inner beauty.  Especially for my boys, I certainly don't want them to judge women for the size of their breasts or their bleach-blonde hair.  How can I teach them this when I don't even believe it myself?

The next morning I ended up going to Nancy's salon and having one of her friends give me a short and sassy haircut.  Everyone loves it and it's (ahem) growing on me.  I think I would have loved it much more if it hadn't of been my only option, but am grateful I was able to get something great out of such a bad haircut.

Now if only it didn't matter so much.