Sickness and Possible Mistakes

I say that it’s immensely unsatisfying because my hair had been making me crazy for, like, weeks leading up to this hair appointment, but then it somehow seemed quite pleasing and fluffy and better looking than usual when I took this picture immediately prior to my haircut (yes, if you are in Niskayuna, you probably know exactly where I’m standing, there). Seriously, aside from my squinting-into-the-sunshine teensy eyes, I look rather adorable and I legit looked at the picture and thought, “Maybe I should just cancel this appointment?” But I did not. Instead, I went in, and after the appointment I took this after picture, which is not flattering, and it feels like my nose got bigger and my face got rounder, and it’s really not an accurate reflection of how I look, I don’t think, but I just don’t have the heart to take more selfies because I am not a selfie person. My technique is poor. I don’t know how to do filters. It’s just not my cuppa tea. So, you know, I look somewhat like that.

Anyway, I was sitting there in the salon staring at myself in the mirror, as one does, and she had just snipped a little fringe of bangs that lay wetly on my pasty forehead and I just kept a frozen smile behind my mask while thinking, “This has been a terrible mistake and I absolutely hate it, but there is no point in making my stylist feel bad because we both thought that this would be a good idea, so let’s keep looking brave and happy.” When she pressed me, I had to admit that the bangs would take some getting used to. Then I tipped her the usual because I couldn’t blame her, I could only blame myself.

Luckily, I have gotten used to them, for the most part, and it is helpful that both J and Cute W are enthusiastically on Team Bangs. This is actually one particularly adorable thing about Cute W. We have been a couple for more than 30 years, and for the first, oh, ten or fifteen of those years, whenever I mentioned getting my haircut, he didn’t want me to. Obviously he wouldn’t tell me not to, but I’d say I was getting it shorter or doing something different and he would fret, “Are your sure?” or he’d just be low-key sad that I was going to change this package of which he was so fond. And then every time, I’d come home and he’d say, “Oh, I love this! You look so cute!” with the utmost sincerity whether I liked the new hair or not. And after this had happened repeatedly, at some point in the second or third decade, his reaction to an impending salon appointment evolved into, “Whatever you do, you always look so cute.” Which is exactly the kind of positive reinforcement I welcome since, as I mentioned, my selfie game is crap.