Exercise # 6 from Old Friend from Far Away
Of course, it was just before Freshman year that my hair had to take the hit for me. That, and the cajoling of a dear friend who knew of my impetus for spontaneity. “Let’s get your hair styled,” she’d said. As harmless a word as any, styled didn’t mean cut, it meant a small change, a cool beginning.
Later I would come to realized “Let’s get your hair styled” also meant, let’s not touch mine.
My dear friend and her perfect shoulder length dishwater blond and high, flat wall of bangs was not one to fall victim to the shears. It would be me and an unceasing hunger for change.
So there at the end of summer, my butt plopped down in a chair at Cost Cutters and I pointed to a picture in a magazine. The stylist must have thought I had a sense of humor. Maybe she thought she’d help show off my over-sized spectacles and shiny braces. Whatever she was thinking, it was not about giving me the style I’d asked for. It was about butchery.
Those were not bangs, they were spikes. Those were not layers, it was a mullet. Going into high school just got that much better. I couldn’t wait to find my locker in Dirt-ball Hall.