Our youngest grand is four going on five. She decided she wanted to try out having shorter hair, and so her long hair that was nearly always pulled out of her face in a ponytail now has a sweet curl under her chin.
You know those little white stickers that say Best By (date) on stuff at the grocery store? They’re designed not to come off easily. Matter of fact, if long hair brushes against one that was only half attached, well, soap and cold water doesn’t get them out.
Hot water didn’t get them off. Last-resort alcohol wipes that typical remove adhesives didn’t really touch the stuff (those were followed by much rinsing).
It wasn’t till the brilliant thought of, well, how about oil, then?
Should have done that first. But by then the last half inch of that lock of hair looked like dreadlocks. Trying to tease out individual strands at a time rescued only a few. At least I’d managed to work the papery clump down that far, and I’d been planning on a trim soon anyway–
–and with that I snipped it off because I was dying to fall into bed and call it a day and be done with it all.
And so today I made that appointment and went in for that trim because it felt like I no longer really had a choice.
This much.
The stylist spritzed and combed, then held scissors and strands out for me to see, a little unsure: this much?
Me on impulse, wanting every tiny residual bit of that glue gone for good in case there was any left: how about another half inch?
Then there’s always that evening things out. Then she blowed dried it.
Which leaves me with a question mark. I won’t know till I let it curl itself up as it dries naturally just how short it’s going to look. It hasn’t been this short in twenty years. It’s what I had them do but it wasn’t what I’d planned. It feels very strange.
But I do know I get to go tell Lillian that I copied her pretty haircut. And you know she’s going to love that.