Louise At Sea: Having hair cut = wearing a smock

I love to talk about hair. My hair in particular, but anyone else’s too. (Just ask any of my friends, they get to hear about my earthy tresses all the time. Forbearance? Yes.) In fact, I’m pretty interested in your hair routine (dry shampoo? Heat protectant? Perm? Coloring? Big-toothed comb?). I think this fascination might be partially hereditary, because my sister, Julie, likes to talk hair too. And my eldest niece, Maren, is AMAZING when it comes to doing hair—just like her namesake, my other sister. Every time I visit my niece, she gets out her brushes, hairspray, clips, and spray bottle, and I go home looking like I’m ready for the junior prom. She’s ten. Jessica Simpson’s stylist/bff got nothing on her.

I’m getting my hair cut tomorrow. I’ve been toying with the idea of bangs for a while. Big, dramatic bangs. Bangs that will hang over my eyebrows and allow me to do the head swoop to swing them out of my eyes. Bangs that I can use as a curtain to disguise my face during criminal acts. Bangs to make young Anna Wintour jealous. Bangs that will change America.

But bangs probably would not look good on my face. (I told my friend, Courtlin, “But the lower part of my face isn’t very attractive!” She said, “And your forehead is going to help that?”).

So I think I’m going to go for it. It’s probably a mistake, but a mistake with my hair is a mistake I can afford.

There’s this YA book by Louise Plummer called The Romantic Obsessions and Humiliations of Annie Sehlmeier. The main character, Annie, humiliates herself in a way that isn’t cute or endearing, but makes you cringe and want to look away. After she does this humiliating thing, months later, she gets her hair cut—lopped off actually. She tells the hairdresser, “I feel like a new person!” And the hairdresser says, “Sometimes that’s necessary.” And sometimes it is.