Monday Rambles

This is me with one of our pet rabbits. I will always be thankful that my parents were animal lovers as we had a very happy life taking care of them when we were children. Dad was a pretty good carpenter and built rabbit hutches. Our back garden was a veritable petting zoo.

Notice that haircut? I don't know what it is but I have never liked going to the hairdresser. It's strange but neither does my son.

Looking back and trying to remember, at first I thought it might have been because before my wedding, a good friend of mine said I really should get my hair cut by her stylist, that he had been taught under the auspices of Vidal Sassoon. Need I say more? He changed my hair so much that when I saw the result I cried, not in front of him of course, but when I got home. I had worn my hair half way down my back for years and had it parted in the middle. I was more than comfortable with it. After my visit to Vidal's wannabee who must have cut at least seven inches off, he left me with bangs and sideburns that went into a point. This was before I knew anything about Mr. Spock but he, along with all Vulcans, would have accepted me as one of their own. I tried to cover what I thought of as a disastrous haircut with my wedding veil, as best I could. Truth be told it probably didn't look that bad, but you know how your mind goes. If I had been a Trekkie back then I would have kept looking to see if my pointy side-burns made my ears look a little too angular. It was too traumatic and as this was only hours before I walked down the aisle, I couldn't even rush out and buy a wig. So to anyone out there who is thinking of getting married, for goodness sake don't listen to your well-meaning friend when she tells you they know the perfect stylist to do your hair, that you will look absolutely fantastic, stick to the one you're used to. I didn't have one - I had hair that grew forever, what did I need a hairdresser for? I didn't like getting my hair cut, did I mentioned that?

The cause of my dislike could have been from when my Mum first placed a bowl on my head and I wore a bowl-cut for years. Friar Tuck and all monks like him would have accepted me into the monastery, without question. Perhaps that's where my dislike of getting my hair cut began? Maybe that's where it all came from, who knows.

Maybe the root cause went back further after I tried cutting my bangs and ended up looking like I had been through the hedge-trimmer. I was at least five years' old. I still remember the look of shock on my mother's face the first time she set eyes on me, scissors still in hand.

I've never in my 61 years liked bangs on myself and if you want to use a little closet psychology, this could have been from all the guilt I felt after I thought the cat needed his whiskers trimmed. Yes I know, absolutely deplorable, a horrible little girl, but there was no maliciousness intended. Another shocked look from my poor mum who couldn't do anything other than to point me in the direction of my Dad for 'the talk'. I still remember him shaking his head as he gave me a lecture of how cats needed their whiskers, because that's how they knew how to get through a hole wide enough for their body, so that they wouldn't get stuck. Was this based in fact? I'm not really sure, it made sense to me. I was feeling great guilt and sympathy for the cat who would never be able to explore another hole ever again. In fact, I felt guilty for years afterwards, every time I looked at my poor cat whose whiskers never grew back properly, who used to stare at me in that disapproving way, in the way that all cats do. I like to think Binky forgave me and it certainly didn't stop him from going to sleep on my lap, though I do think he enjoyed digging his claws into my legs with a bit too much relish, which supposedly showed his contentment so Dad told me. Dad knew a lot about cats, or so my six year old mind told me. I certainly wasn't ever going to trim his whiskers again, the cat I mean.

Because of my own dislike I always tried to put my feelings aside when the time came for me to guide our son in the direction of the barber, but he ended up not liking his hair cut anyway. What is that?

I went to the hairdresser this past week. I still hate going to the hairdressers. I go to Hair Cuttery because not only is the price right and I don't feel like I am handing over a fortune for a simple cut, but I'm in and out lickety split and you don't have to make an appointment, you just walk in. I usually wait until my hair is long overdue for a cut, go begrudgingly, and I have to feel in the mood before I walk through the door. This is usually an impulse decision on the way to somewhere. I get a pretty decent cut too but this time I was extra glad to get out and back into the fresh air.

Conversation between my hair stylist and me.

Hair Stylist: "Would you like some color? I can do color. You have some grey hair"

Me: "No thank you."

Hair-Stylist: "You look better in layers. Do you want your hair in layers?"

Me, and remembering how long it took to grow the last layered look out because I didn't like it, I smile sweetly and said, "No thank you."

Hair Stylist: "Your hair is dry, I can give you a good shampoo and conditioner, you want a good shampoo and conditioner? I can also give you gel to make your hair shine, and this to give it volume. Makes your hair less dull looking."

Me, as I think would you also like my first born child as I pay for all these products and thanks so much for the moral boost? But I smile sweetly and say, "No thank you."

Hair-Stylist: "I also put hair up for parties and weddings. Are you going to any parties or weddings?"

Me: "No, sorry I'm not." Her expression by this time said she wasn't very happy with me being such a no-sayer. I expect when she sees me next time she will run in the other direction and hand me off to one of the other nice ladies in there.

Hair Stylist, undaunted, she made one last try: "Your eyebrows need waxing. Do you want your eyebrows waxed. I can do under the nose and chin too", as she patted under her chin for effect. I wasn't in any mood to get my hair done by this time, let alone go through the pain of having horrible, nasty little hairs ripped out with a layer of wax. I'm glad I wasn't wearing glasses so that I didn't have to see such a horrible apparition of the bearded lady looking back at me. It's bad enough staring into those floor to ceiling mirrors anyhow.

Me, with a startled look on my face saying to myself but not to the hair stylist, I'm growing a mustache AND a beard? Maybe this is payback for cutting the cat's whiskers? But I smile sweetly and say, "No thank you."

Hair Stylist: "Okay, you're done."

Me: "Thank you", this as I cartwheel out of the place knowing that I won't be back for another three or four months. Yippeeee!

This is a picture of my sister and me with our pets Skipper and Binky, in 1950-55. My sister gave me her doll to hold. She certainly wasn't going to give me the cat!