Shattered

If you’re bald ...stop reading right now because this post won’t interest you.

I feel compelled to pour out my gut wrenching sorrow. In Writing. To The World. I’m sure someone somewhere will identify with my pain.

This week, I’m back in the saddle. Raring to go. I’m whipping through my “To Do” lists like you wouldn’t believe. Monday I dealt with the insurance company, made a specialist appointment, went to the library, and worked a full day. And that was before 10 am. Next thing on my list was to arrange a wax and haircut.

I should have had a haircut two weeks ago because I look like a woolly mammoth and can barely see through my fringe. In fact my fringe is currently merging with my upper lip hair. That would be attractive perhaps if my name was Boris-ina or I was the bearded lady at the circus.  

Everyone who works at my hair salon is perky , pretty and coincidentally has perfect hair. My hairdresser Megan is the goddess of hair. For a princely sum she can make you look like you just spent three hours and a princely sum getting your hair done. I walk out of there feeling gorgeous. It’s a fair trade, although Mr. P goes pale and breaks out in a sweat every time I announce I have an appointment. Nobody touches me except for Megan. This is the rule. Everybody knows this. Yes I’m the crazy cat lady of the hair world.

Anyway...I called the hair salon. (All names have been changed to protect the innocent) B answers. And when I tell her I look like a woolly mammoth and am desperately in need of  a haircut and I beg her to book me in with Megan for TOMORROW (with the emphasis on TOMORROW so she can tell how desperate I really am ) and I pause for dramatic effect , she pauses too. Or she might have been waiting to get a word in. Whatever.

And B informs me Megan has left.

Now, I don’t know. Maybe Megan has been sniffing the hair toner or they found her shooting up peroxide and they had to let her go. I couldn't care less. So what if she’s a jumped up addict? She is the GODDESS of my hair for crying out loud. She can’t be gone!

In that moment, I felt a loss so profound, so deep, that I almost started to cry. Never again will my locks look gorgeous. Never again will I find someone who can transform a woolly mammoth into a beautiful swan. Never again will Megan think the fact I want pink and purple hair as a protest about becoming a grandmother, cute and completely righteous. And not juvenile in the slightest.

And in this moment of pain and suffering and loss and grief, the best I could say to B was “Well, that sucks”.

Years of university education and a prolific command of the English language was reduced to those three words. WELL THAT SUCKS.

Man, I hope someone uses that as my Eulogy someday.

P.S. I lost 3 kilos by shaving my legs yesterday. Better than going to Weight Watchers. I cannot wait to get my eyebrows and upper lip waxed and lose another kilo or so.

I wanna know ...do any bald people read my blog and did you read this post?

And Nerida, I know if you’re reading,  you’ll understand if I’m in a bad mood on Wednesday. Someone called Jody is cutting my hair tomorrow.