Almost Cut My Hair

Almost Cut My Hair - Crosby, Stills & Nash

It’s two thirty on a Thursday afternoon, somewhere halfway through December. I figured it was time to get myself some New Yorkian career hair, and have ended up in a somewhat expensive salon on the second floor of a building on 35th Street and Broadway. My assigned stylist sighs as she rakes a comb through my hair, thoroughly unimpressed with the result of 20 years of do-it-yourself dye. I decide to take the fifth and slowly sink into a slumber as she works her magic. ‘So I say to him,’ the ageless lady in one of the chairs behind me suddenly honks, stirring me from my haircut stupor. ‘I say, not Martha’s Vineyard again! I want to do something fun for our anniversary for a change!’ The lady is quacking away at her reflection in the mirror. With a seasoned flick of the wrist she downs a glass of champagne. The assistant-stylist rushes to refill her flute as she waves it in his general direction. To keep up with the ageless look of her oldest daughter, the lady must at all times feel at least one and a half times younger than she actually is. And have a weekly ritual drop-by at her stylist.

The stylist standing behind her chair struggles to angle a pair of scissors into the flawless do – to no avail. The lady has so much to talk about that it makes her head shake. From the moment she stilted into the shop and set off on her endless anecdote, it was the already coiffed friend in the chair next to her who has been listening so intently she seems transfixed to her seat. The stylist, secretly pining for the friend’s petrified head, barely manages to dodge the lady’s right ear. He decides to step back and wait for a window of peace and quiet.

‘I mean, our surgeon friend X gave me the new insides of my thighs for crying out loud,’ the lady seems to wrap up her story on a revealing note. I am on the edge of my seat, hanging on to every word. The friend has started to nod triumphantly. She starts: ‘I know, I had the…’ But before she can finish her intro she is cut short by the lady. ‘Then again, I deserved a present after my little incident the other day,’ she natters on good-naturedly. The undisputed queen of mini-pause.

The stylist lets out a near inaudible sigh, only noticed by his shoulders. Overpowered once more. He routinely waves the scissors over the lady’s head a couple more times before he holds up his little mirror and declares: ‘There. All done. What do you think?’

‘Perfect’, announces the lady. The friend nods in agreement. The two women slowly sink into their chairs. The lady steals one more glance at the mirror. She raises her hand to rake it through her hair, but changes her mind in mid-lift. The fingers hover, aimlessly stuck at shoulder-hight. They tremble a little. A vain rivers its way to the hem of her blouse, changing its course every time she moves a tendon. The lady swallows hard; the image disappears. Did anyone else notice? The stylist is staring stoically into oblivion, the friend seems to be studying her nails. With an unexpectedly swift turn, the lady's gaze suddenly meets mine. Caught in the act! I am so startled my head jerks to one side in abrupt panic-reflex. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ I hear my stylist hiss. I stumble an apology, then carefully glance back at the lady. I’ll never tell!, I pray she reads the vow in my terrified stare. I try a feeble smile. The lady glares at me long and hard. Then she draws a careful breath, winks at me and turns away from me. ‘Sure, why not – I’ll have another sip’, she continues to steer her glass towards the assistant. One more ageless year.