46/365 Almost Cut My Hair

Almost cut my hair
Happened just the other day
It was gettin’ kinda long
I could have said it was in my way
But I didn’t, and I wonder why
Feel like letting my freak flag fly
I feel like I owe it to someone

The gods willing, today I’ll get my hair cut. It’s been almost 16 weeks since the last one, something unheard of since I got back into this habit.

The reason it’s been (and is) so long is that I have to drive more than 2 hours to see my stylist, and the winter got complicated, so my every-10-to-12-weeks got postponed to today.

Admitting that I drive 2+ hours to have someone cut my hair is a tad embarrassing. It’s a little neurotic. It could be about trust. It could be about loyalty. But I’ve never had a normal relationship with salon life.

I was a chubby kid with bad haircuts. When I finally talked my mother into letting me grow my hair out, beginning in about sixth grade, I just kept going. I became one of the kids with long hair. It wasn’t gorgeous-thick-TV-commercial long, but it was long. Once I stepped out of that salon sometime around 1973 or ’74, I didn’t actually step back into one until 1995. Think PTSD. (And yes—I exaggerate a million times a day.)

I’m sure I must have occasionally had a friend take a little off the ends. The only instance of this I remember clearly, though, happened the year after college, when I was doing volunteer service through a church organization. I asked one of my roommates to take a couple of inches off for me. By the time she was done, I’d lost 8 or 10. I was devastated. I was crying. But when we went to work the next day, nobody noticed. I mean, it was still below the shoulder.

The decision to cut my hair, I think, was based on two things. First, I was living in DC and trying to make the job jump from secretarial to editorial. I decided that my long hair wasn’t helping me any—that I needed a more professional (or potentially professional) look. The other was that my best friend’s mother had said to me—not in a critical way, just being observant—“You’re the type of person who will never cut her hair.” Yeah, that was probably it. I had to prove someone wrong. I owed it to someone.

My friend yh was living in DC at the time too. She had been a professional hairdresser in her former life. She could walk me through this.

yh told me to look at magazines and gather up some photos of haircuts I liked. I brought them to her. “This woman’s hair is wet,” she would say. “Keeping it wet all day would not be practical.” “This woman is standing in front of a fan. This, too, is a difficult look to maintain.”

We finally decided on the gradual chop to avoid shock. She cut it to just above my shoulder. I still have the braid she snipped off in a box somewhere (a distasteful thought to some—sorry). A relic.

It wasn’t long before I had the nerve to go shorter. For a long time I had a bob with a severe angle, the back shaved out. I loved having the hair off my neck. But I always kept the front long. I’m the type who needs a quick and obvious escape route.

For the rest of my time in DC, I would go to yh’s place in Adams Morgan, get my hair cut, sweep up the mess after. We’d get to spend great girlfriend time together.

And then I moved to Vermont.

Three major fears about the move: Can we make enough money to live? Will I ever eat Thai food again? Who will cut my hair?

Tim moved up 8 months before I did. At his company Christmas party, my hair was different enough to be a topic of conversation, and I was warned that no one up here would cut it that way.

Tim, though, had found Danielle.

In 1995, I walked into Danielle’s salon, the first time I’d been in one in at least 20 years. Tim was right. She knew what she was doing. And I, being both loyal and somewhat resistant to change, have seen no one but her since that day.

Unfortunately, she’s moved around the state a bit, which has necessitated these long drives. She was in St. Alban’s for years, so I would drive way up north. But I really don’t get my hair cut that often, so it was OK, and I used it as an excuse to spend the rest of the day in Burlington, being around actual people, commerce, and restaurants. My semicity fix.

More recently, she’s moved to Montpelier, our state capital. It’s a pretty town, and the only state capital in the United States without a McDonald’s. I can buy some decent dark roast beans at Capitol Grounds, which I have every intention of doing today. But I will be in the car 4½ hours, round-trip—both because I love Danielle and because I am a scaredy-cat who doesn’t want anyone else touching my hair.

My hair’s not as short as it used to be. Danielle talked me into growing it out in the back. But to keep it from looking too thick, she still shaves out the back underneath, and that’s my favorite part—feeling the smooth, graceful shortness that’s still mine, even if it’s my secret.

Not surprisingly, I’ve always loved “Almost Cut My Hair.” Here’s David Crosby going all acoustic on its ass.