Got Muh Hair Did!

I finally broke down over Winter Break, and got my hair done:  cut, highlights, the works.  I had begun to fear that I would be taken aside by HR at my workplace, and asked to polish it up a bit.  Sitting in the chair, my head weighted down by folded squares of foil and heat blasting directly into my eye sockets, I wondered how long it had been since I'd last had my hair styled.  Even trimmed?  I could not come up with the answer.  Your guess is as good as mine.

When my hairdresser asked how short I wanted it, I told her "the usual", holding steadfast to my belief that if my hair is long enough to cover my brastrap in back, I will continue retain just a tad of my former youth:  sixteen years old, long blonde hair bouncing, cute skirt twirling as I skipped down my parent's driveway in the bright sunshine, without a care in the world.

While she washed out excess chemicals and began to cut, my hairdresser of the last ten years or so shattered my fantasy once and for all.  "I'm guessing you've noticed the change in your hair texture since your daughter died."

Gulp.  "Yes, I did.   My doctor said it was the sudden stress- a lot of it fell out, but not all of it came back."

"And it probably won't,"  she cautioned me, "so try to stay away from heat styling, if you can."

Well, damn.  I'm just a bald chick with one kid waiting to die.  I suddenly felt as far from youth and attractiveness as one woman could possibly feel.

I love my hairdresser, but she likes to talk and she takes her time.  Nearly three hours later, I drove home, feeling a little thin on top, but definitely more put together.  I walked in, expecting Jake to bow me over with compliments, which realistically isn't even in his temperament, but I've been training him for nearly thirteen years now, so I expected something.

I took four steps inside my kitchen and heard this,
"Mom, what did you do to your hair?!  Change it back!  Change it back!"

My mouth gaped.

"You don't like it?"  I asked nakedly.

"It makes you look kinda old.  And I liked it better darker, the way it was."

Alrighty then.  You can imagine then, my trepidation approaching Angie's office this morning.  You think children know all there is to know about blunt honesty, then you meet this little woman.

"Miss Nicole!!  You got your hair done!"  she said with a smile that gave nothing away.  She has smiled at me the same way while escorting me to the E.R. to pass a stone.  You just never can tell with that woman.

Later in the day, I told her what Jake had said and tried to chuckle like I didn't believe a word of it. Bravado it was:  every bit I could muster.  She responded with this,
 "Oh, no!  Miss Nicole, with your hair actually done...you know cut and colored and well...brushed...you wouldn't believe how much less haggard you look."

I'm sorry, did she just say 'haggard'?  Had this woman knowingly been letting me walk around  looking unkempt, unwell, and emaciated, as the definition of "haggard" would indicate?

Haggard, folks.  Let that descriptor wash over your soul a bit.  
I'm not sure what was worse - finding out I've been looking haggard or that Jake had grown so used to it that he could barely recognize me when I looked groomed?

You have to laugh; if you don't, you'll cry.
 I'm going to go deep condition my hair, now.  Gotta baby the strands I have left.