I actually have hair. I don’t have cancer nor chemo nor baldness; I have no right to complain.
And yet. It happened not once but twice and I was done.
It took me a year to get up the courage to try again.
I took recommendations. I wanted the reassurances that only getting through it could offer me. I did not ever again want to spend that kind of time intensely rueing having so much of my hair chopped off above my ears after saying I only wanted the bottom trimmed below my shoulders.
Krista from knitting gave me Kimber’s name and told me I would love her.
It took me over a month to finally reach out to that number, but today I found out she was right. I do. I cannot tell you the relief it was to have it matter to her that how I wanted it was how she did it. She asked lots of questions. She listened.
I love my new haircut. It’s actually how the old stylist used to routinely do it, plain and simple and hippy earth-motheringness with a little bit of a shorter sweep across the side of the face. That face in the mirror, said the woman with lupus-onset prosopagnosia, I recognize.
I can trust someone with my head and hair again and that feels like no small thing.