Hairdresser, Part One

From "Hairdresser"

Let me tell you about my hairdresser. She’s phenomenal, amazing, knows just how much to trim and exactly where to take it from without butchering you or creating a weird facsimile of Tom Brown’s School Days. She also collects frogs. Ceramic frogs, rubber frogs, frog stickers, teapots with frogs hanging over the spout, grinning up at you with one lid closed. This makes it extremely easy to find a Christmas present for her, although in some years it is not always possible to locate just the right amphibian; frog trends tend to come and go. This fluid, rather unstable frog situation can present a sort of challenge, come the holidays. Her name by the way is Flossie, and she is extremely obese, which is a bit off putting at first I have to admit, until one realizes what a genius hair stylist she truly is. And besides, you don’t have to move around that much to snip someone’s crowning glory, but before I continue, let me tell you about the hair.

My hair probably deserves a paragraph although it could even be described as a circuitous story with lots of twists and turns. When I was relatively little I used to scream and whimper pitifully as my mother attempted to plow through that frizzy jungle of DNA like a tenacious and driven explorer hacking through the bush with a machete. Frizzy. How I hated the sound of that word in an era when blonde and bland and blah was beautiful. Straight, limpid locks, that was what I craved. But instead I was “blessed” with a thick and lumpy patch of mattress stuffing, a curly ball of twine. Later of course, when styles changed and people began resorting to expensive and time-consuming perms, I was thrilled to have “naturally curly hair;” it became my badge, a big head on a little girl. That was how I preferred to envision myself. . . .