Monday, April 9, 2012

I cheated.

Last week I cheated.  I never thought I was the type.  I'm historically loyal to a fault, and generally hold on to people well past when they deserve.  But I had a moment of weakness, and I gave into temptation.

I cheated on my French hair boyfriend. 

We've been solid for about six years now.  I followed him from one salon to another.  He was with me through my divorce, breakups, moves, my new job.  I barely have to tell him what I want when I walk in the door-he just knows.  He knows that the underside of my hair is straighter than the rest of it and cuts accordingly.  He's given me fabulous blowouts for holiday parties, interview days, and dates.  I like his accent and how his name is Joel but is pronounced Jo-elle.  He's married with a little girl and goes back to France once or twice a year, and we had a good thing going. 

I've gotten blowouts from others before.  That doesn't count.  A blowout isn't cheating.  But my last blowout I tried a new salon by my current office.  This stylist is also European, but I've yet to suss out where exactly his accent originates from.  It's much thicker than Joel's and he's kind of hard to understand.  I went in to get a blowout for a busy weekend of social events a few weeks back.  I left in awe of the awesomeness of my hair.  I kept smelling something good and realizing it was me.  I was sad to wash it later in the weekend and say goodbye to the awesome.

When I'd left the salon, this stylist suggested that next time I come back for a haircut.  I smiled and departed, thinking "Yeah, right". 

But the thought simmered.  My hair began becoming due for its cut, and I obsessively looked at it, thinking of how it had looked the same for so long.  The downside of having a stylist who knows exactly what you want all the time is that you stay in your happy little comfort zone and you forget that change is possible.  So the ide percolated, and I debated.  I toiled.  I weighed my guilt.

Then I cheated.  I even told the stylist that I was cheating, that he was the other man.  He seemed nonplussed as he continued to chop away at my hair.

I was freaking out.  My hair is short to start with.  And he just kept cutting, and hair was flying, and it felt short.  SHORT.  I said something about it with a nervous giggle, and he assured me that no, it wasn't really short.  I would love it.

He blow dried it straight.  Perk of a haircut, but also a tricky thing because it means I wouldn't see my hair in its natural state for at least a couple of days.  My hair always looks awesome straight.  It did seem shorter, at least more layered, but I got compliments at work.  Also, an old coworker saw me at lunch on Saturday and she KNEW I'd cheated.  It looked different enough that she asked.  And she said she liked it a lot better!  That it was a better, more dynamic cut.

This made me feel better.  I reveled in my short coif, knowing I looked spectacular.  I was easy, breezy, beautiful me. 

Finally, later on Saturday after going to the gym, I came home and showered, finally washing my hair.  When I was lathering it up I thought, wow, this feels SHORT.  I got out and took the towel turban off my head.  It was short.  I tried not to think about it too much.  I put my product in and went about my afternoon.  Ho hum.  I went out to run an errand or three. 

I got home and I looked in the mirror.  I puzzled over it for a minute, then decided I loved it.  I woke up sunday and looked in the mirror at my slept on hair and thought, "Damn, it's even cute after being slept on!"  Sunday night post shower I randomly touched it up with a curling iron to see how it would look on the days I made more effort. Super cute!  Bouncy!  Light!  Fun!

This morning?  Panic set in.  I feel actually self conscious about how short it is.  I've never had hair this short.  Ever.  It is ear length, people.  EARS.  Not chin.  I have almost no hair left on my little head of dishwater blonde curls.  GONE, it is. 

I have no idea why I feel so conspicuous today.  Maybe because the rest of my curly time this weekend was solo, and in my own little world I love it.  But throw me into the real world where I'm supposed to have long hair to be sexy and attractive, and suddenly I'm shivering in a cold breeze of doubt.  Not to mention that I still cheated.  This actually bothers me.  I think about how if I decide I like the cut, I have to stop seeing Joel. But if I decide I don't, eventually I'll have to go back and confess that I cheated, because he will know he didn't give me this cut.

Oh what a tangled web I weave.
And I can't decide what I think about this hair!

I just wrote a long, winding post about hair.  Just call me Vanity Smurf.

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