i recently went to the salon for a haircut.  it had been quite a while since my last visit, as evidenced by the thick band of dark roots showing at the crown, the frazzled, too-long ends of dry, lacklustre, pull-it-back-in-a-ponytail hair.  and when my stylist started segmenting it into miniclips for cutting, i felt a large pang of embarrassment at the shock of grey hairs that came shining through.  i looked, i thought, like someone who’d begun to let herself go.

i’m not high-maintenance by any standard, but my one vanity is my hair. i’ve always enjoyed playing around with different styles and (in my twenties) colours.  i’ve never been a clothes horse or one for trendy fashions, but the one thing that keeps me feeling young at heart (even as i get considerably greyer) is my hair.  for the most part, i don’t think i look too bad for my age – i’m in decent shape, have few real wrinkles as yet…  objectively speaking, i’m holding up okay.  and yet there i sat, looking at this washed out, grey shell of myself.

so why have i let my hair get to this state?  this frumpy, boring, can’t be bothered, look?  it’s not like i don’t have the time or the money for this one small thing, every three or four months.

and you know, when he was done working his magic, i walked out of there feeling so terribly cute.  i had a spring in my step, an instant mood lift.  my new cut made me feel young and funky.  it was worth every penny i paid for this feeling.  i just can’t fathom why i don’t go more often.

a resolution for the new year – an investment in my self-esteem.

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