Here's a heads up:
The hair is coming off. Oh I know, I know, "Don't do it Ang, your long hair is your trademark", I've heard that too many times before. Well, as many of you know my health is an erratic dance and recently it has been tangoing in a frenzy. The raucous expression has paid a toll on skin and hair, so I am off to the barber. I say this as a gentle announcement, so that when you see me you will exclaim in absolute wonderment, "OH MY, YOU LOOK MARVELOUS", or something to that effect, with jaw agape and a look of outright envy in your eye. The appointment isn't scheduled for another week, which should give you time to perfect your anticipated response.
I have often thought that I must have descended from the unfortunate lineage of Samson. Perhaps the lovechild of he and Delilah, unheralded and unexpected, endowed with the tragic notion that strength was somehow integrally connected to hair. I have been a trepidatious traveler into every salon whose threshold I ever tarried over. I have sat in a variety of chairs, each time staring with unblinking dismay at the foreign face, bedecked in a cape of hideous proportions, staring back at me. I have cut my hair short three times in my life. Once in the fourth grade to the ill effect of being called a boy more often than not. Once in my early twenties, when I fell in love with an Asian haircut (which didn't fair well on my curly, celtic locks) and once in my late twenties when an identity crisis found me staring in the mirror at June Cleaver. Perhaps it is because of this checkered past that I have grown so scissor weary. I am attempting to overcome that in the hopes of diminishing a recent proclivity toward dread locks and clogged drains... besides the stylist's name is Libby and not Delilah, so I should by in good shape.
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