I am a normal person, now.
My superpower is hidden.
I cut my hair.
|One last photograph...|
I wanted to be all flip about it, say something like, "Just take a little off the bottom... 20 or 30 inches," but I got super nervous all of a sudden.
|Apparently, the ladies at Cost Cutters do not keep a katana on hand for cutting hair.|
I could see the fear in the stylist's eyes. She asked me if I was sure three or four times.
|Instead of the expected ripping cutting feeling, I got a mild vibration from the back of my head.|
Instead, I waited until she handed me my hair, and said, "Oh wait, I changed my mind," but I was smiling so she didn't believe me.
|It's tied up like that so it can be donated to Locks of Love.|
I held it up like a trophy to show how brave I am.
By this time, everyone in the salon was staring. There were some gasps of fear and hands over mouths. There was a couple of cheers and someone called, "Good for you!"
I had the sudden urge to cry, so I laughed instead. Fuck you, hair. I didn't want you anyway.
Crap. What did I do?
|I walked out of the salon, smiling nervously. Is this what I look like now?|
I will no longer be able to loosen my bun and let my hair fall down my back to show my specialness to the world.
I keep catching my reflection and thinking, "Crap, this hairstyle is annoying. I should have shaved it."
By evening I tried 50 ways to tie this crap out of my face. I may need to go back and get rid of this non-style style. To get rid of this "I'm a mom" hairstyle.
I am not a mom. I shouldn't have a mom-do.
Maybe I just need to be more positive.
I will save a fortune in shampoo. I will save time brushing it twice a day. It will be easier to wear a helmet or a hat.
My hair will no longer act as a handle for zombies when the uprising begins.
And my hair won't escape the mail service and come inching back to me, creeping through the streets and dragging mud and spiders. It won't come crawling through the dryer outlet, and snake its way up the stairs. It won't squeeze under my bedroom door, and climb up the disheveled quilt and stare down at me while I sleep.
It won't wrap its jealous tendrils around my throat whispering, "Why couldn't you love me back?"
It won't do these things, because I let the salon send it off. They tied it up in a sack and secured it tightly, so it won't escape.
I can only hope that I will never walk by the Locks of Love recipient. I can just see it, the mutual recognition as it flies off her head and attaches itself to my face like the spider alien egg layers in the Alien series.
I will just have to be vigilant.
My waves came back as the hair dried. Maybe THIS is what I look like now.
Hair all gone.
I will stop writing about it now, I promise.