on haircuts

Last weekend I received a haircut from Tracey, a young-ish, hip (gauging by her flashy red highlights and unnecessarily tight jeans) mother who calls her son "Little Man" and laughs raucously at jokes yelled from across the salon. It was my first venture away from Turbo, my fashion-forward New York hairstylist who somehow always convinces me to allow elaborate and expensive procedures on my hair, including caramel highlights and deep conditioning treatments. (Blast those walk-in appointments.) It was also a first step to settling into this new home called Cambridge that I keep convincing myself is a temporary stop along the way.

My bold move with Tracey was requesting bangs, a step that is usually reserved for the 2nd or 3rd haircut, when I know my hairdresser better and have more faith in his/her panache with the scissors. But somehow, Tracey, with her offhand comments about her desire to adopt a monkey (to the utter dismay of husband Todd) put me right at ease. "Cut them right off," I announced, expecting brilliance but also preparing myself for bowl-cut disaster (just in case). In the end, after much combing, spritzing, gelling and drying, the bangs were not-so-surprisingly tamed into obedience, lying just so on my forehead, staunchly resisting outside movement. I applauded her effort with a tip, knowing full well that I would not be able to recreate such a masterpiece with my skillz.

Since then, however, it has been alternately muggy and chilly here, which has caused my bangs significant distress. To be frizzy or to comply with dictatorship of Hair Straightener and Blow Dryer, combined with John Frieda Hair Gel, Garnier Mousse, and Farouk Silk Creme, is the question of the day (or in some cases, hour) for those few hair follicles destined to grow at the outskirts of my forehead. Come visit and you'll see.