Sex Cat

I had my first real haircut--as in, I wanted it and I chose what happened--when I was about 12. Given that I'm almost 50, that means 38 years of hair cuts, and let's see, sometimes I went three, even four months without a cut, but sometimes I've had quite short hair that needed cutting every four weeks, hmm, let's say 6 cuts per year on average-- I come up with 228. Let's round up to 230.

230 haircuts in my life.

Why, then, did I believe Current Haircutting Guy when he assured me that the new cut would have a "tousled, playful" effect, and that it would be a style with "lots of action, lots of movement"? I hadn't realized hair was supposed to be active; guess I've always just assumed my hair was supposed to be a couch potato. But hey, movement sounded good, so did the whole tousled, playful thing. I'd like to think I'm playful and, well, tousled. In a good way. A feminist sort of tousled.

Turns out "tousled and playful" translates, in non-Haircutting Guy-speak, as "frizzy." And "action" and "movement"? It means "straggly." It means "mad menopausal woman with bad hair."

Awhile back, ok, a long while back, when I was in my early-to-mid-30s, I went to a new Haircutter Guy, and he studied me and my hair for awhile with a kind of sad and concerned look, then sat down on his stool, and declared, "What you have here is a Schoolmarm Look. But I, I think we should go for something more like a Sex Kitten."

Absolutely. I stuck with him for years. All we ever achieved was Poofy Southern Lady hair, but hey, the promise of Sex Kittenhood was so enticing, I kept coming back.

I want to be a Sex Kitten. All right, all right, all right. Facing 50, I'll settle for Sex Cat. I want to be a Sex Cat.

And even after 230 haircuts, I refuse to give up hope. I have faith. After all, I'm a Chicago Cubs fan. And a Christian. And even a firm supporter of single-payer universal health care for all Americans. We shall overcome some day. And on that day, I will be sporting playful, tousled hair. I will be a Sex Cat.