Dreaded Haircut Day

Will it be Dr. Spock?

Today is Dreaded Haircut Day. After over ten years of going to my stylist, Delores Demint, who knows with precision how I like my hair, I am offering up my locks to someone I’ve never met and who may or may not understand a single word I say.

The term “dreaded haircut” is a result of my past experience. Years ago, when we were cruising on Up Jinks, the inevitable day would come when I needed one. It did not seem to matter where I was—in the Bahamas, maybe Mexico or Belize or Honduras or Guatemala…heck, even in the U.S.—the results were always the same.

I would come into the salon. Regardless of the language, the opening question was always the same. “What do you want done?” My reply was constant. “I’d like a trim, slanted up over the ears and soft, with bangs, on top.” The results, totally consistent. I might as well have asked, “Have you ever seen Star Trek? Well, I’d like to look as close to Dr. Spock as possible.”

Perhaps the worst dread of all, for any woman anywhere, is to hear from a stylist, “You know…not many people can wear this cut. But you surely can.” This comment always comes just before they wheel you around in the chair so you can see in the mirror the horrors that have been wrought upon your head. Such was the case for me in Charleston, of all places, one year when we were back from Guatemala for a visit with Lyn. I left the salon in tears. When I called John to tell him I was finished and he could come pick me up, I said, “You’ll know me when you see me. I’m the one who looks like she’s undergoing chemotherapy.”

The good news, of course, is that hair grows back. The bad news is it has to be cut again.

Today, I am going to RETO, a salon near the Mercadona. When I made the appointment, there was a young lady there who spoke English and could interpret what I needed to the person at the desk. I am taking a trusty picture with me to show my stylist what I hope to have happen.

We’ll see! Be back shortly.

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Well…it’s not exactly Spock. More like Peter Pan this time. Where’s my little green, feathered cap? I guess I was meant to never grow up (in spite of the grey)…or get a haircut like I want, even with a picture. At least for the next little while I won’t have to do anything to it after shampooing. There isn’t much with which to do something! (Deference to Rodney Pirtle and his hawking of prepositions at the ends of sentences,)