If decisions I’ve made in my life were sorted into folders, this most recent choice would definitely be filed away under the heading “What Was I Thinking?” It certainly would not be the only item in that file, just the latest. In fact, if I reflect on many of the decisions I’ve made in the past, that would be one chubby file folder!
This most recent questionable decision had its origins in what is for me a religious activity. That is, getting a haircut. Those of you who know me, or who have read my blog about my tumultuous relationship with my crowning glory, know that I have a very short do. I get it cut once a month, without fail, and barely make it into the fourth week, when I swear I start to hear my hair growing.
In any event, on this particular day, which was a little shy of New Year’s Eve, I remarked to the stylist how, although it is trouble-free, I sometimes become bored with my look. There is not much you can do with hair that is less than a quarter-inch long. You can’t curl it. Not that I would want to. A pony tail is out of the question. And hair ornaments don’t stand a chance.
Friends – even if you are one of those people who claim to be only vaguely interested in television, and swear that you watch only PBS soap operas, British spy movies, The History Channel, or Bloomberg Business, you must be aware that the new season is upon us. I, for one, am an unabashed TV viewer, and I confess this with the same courage with which I owned up to my Cool Whip addiction. I do not ask for forgiveness.
As devoted as I am to police dramas, post-mortem dissections, and Jeopardy, I have so far failed to understand the public’s attraction to Reality TV. I have experienced it at least enough to decide that even five minutes is four minutes too long. I find Honey Boo-Boo exactly that, and if I had watched the Kardashian daughters when I was in my child-bearing years, I probably would have run to my ob-gyn demanding to have my tubes tied.
So you want an accurate weather forecast? Just ask a woman. As a gender, we are natural-born meteorologists. And we do it without any fancy equipment. No need for Doppler radar, barometers, hygrometers, or weather satellites. All we have to do is step outside, remain there for less than a minute, come back inside, look in a mirror, and observe the state of our hair.
For example, we can provide a humidity reading within a fraction of a percentage point by noting if our coif frizzes or goes flat. Temperature is accurately predicted by determining the perspiration factor and how it affects one’s bangs. Rain is definitely on the way if we decide it’s hopeless, yank it back with a hair tie, andor don a baseball cap.
I have come to believe that most women have a weird relationship with their locks. For one thing, we are never satisfied. If our hair is straight, we wish it were curly; if it’s curly, we wish it were straight. We change the color and we are forever changing the style. We will pay the equivalent of a month’s worth of groceries and fly half-way across the country for the perfect haircut.