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I braced myself for the inevitable comments. But as anyone who has made a major error in changing their appearance knows, it takes a long time to find anyone brave enough to tell you how your newly waxed eyebrows or puce contact lenses really look.
No matter what he said or didn’t say, I knew from the word go my boyfriend would not like the new look. This boyfriend of mine is what you might call a regular guy: a televised sports, cold beer, dirty magazine in the desk drawer guy. A guy who loved my long hair, of course, because that’s what regular guys want. The hair in the pictogram. Something to grab on to when they drag you back to the cave. Perhaps this is why I never said for sure I was going to do it, why I scheduled the appointment when he was out of the country, and why he walked right past me in the airport where I was waiting expectantly to pick him up when he got home.
Several expressions crossed his face when he finally recognized me, the last of which was buried in what was left of my hair.
“It looks different,” was the best he could manage.
I had been hearing a lot of this sort of comment. “You cut your hair!” “Hey! Short!” “Did you get a haircut?” Duh. Suddenly, everyone’s a diplomat. People even told me I looked more grown-up. Don’t they realize no woman of 38 is trying to look more grown-up? Or more professional, as one friend commented. I was hoping to look like a pixie, not a suburban real estate agent. And if one more person recommends big earrings and bright lipstick, I think I’ll just start wearing a ski mask.
But what do you expect? Why would friends, lovers, and family risk certain wrath by speaking up and telling the Empress she has bad hair? As in fairy tale and fable, The Grand Prize for Voice of Truth goes to an innocent bystander, in this case the young man who comes by once a week to remove the floes of rotting leaves from my crumbling swimming pool. A rock & roll musician by night, the pool cleaner is a gnomish-looking fellow who wears a stocking cap on his shaved head, a gold hoop in his pierced ear, and a couple days’ worth of reddish stubble on his cheeks.
We smile at each other a lot, but usually talk only when there’s a problem with the pool. So when I saw him set down his skimmer and come to the door the other day, I knew some crucial algae warning was on his lips. I opened the door. Hi, Randy, I said.
“Um, Marion,” he began, and lifted his eyes to meet mine. An expression of utter horror crossed his face.
“What did you do to your beautiful hair?” he cried out.
I realized how desperately I had been waiting to hear these words. It was as if they had been hanging in the air unspoken all along. Thank God for the dear little pool cleaner. I wanted to hug him — while he of course was falling all over himself to apologize. No, Randy, it is I who am sorry. My hair is gone, it looks terrible and I did it to myself. Okay, fine. Now lend me a pair of earrings while I put on this lipstick.
This article appears in May 2 • 1997 and May 2 • 1997 (Cover).