The Haircut Chronicles

 
As wonderful as it is living a peaceful, bucolic life surrounded by cloven-hoofed creatures, there are certain harsh realities when it comes to living in the country—especially if you’re female. Aside from the stereotypical chores that historically (and eternally) fall onto a woman’s lap—laundry, gardening, cooking, etc.—there are also the things we women miss out on by virtue of the fact that we live far away from civilization.

Starbucks, for one. That’s a given. Lunch dates, for another. Not happening. Shopping for sales—no. When you live in the country, you shop if and only if you can steal away enough time to make a three hour round trip to the big city and spend the entire day looking for bargains and shopping smartly. But that never happens. When you live in the country, you usually have about an hour of actual store time, so you grab whatever you can get, robbed forever of the luxury of finding things on sale. Throw four kids into the mix, with their jeans, underwear, socks, t-shirts, sweaters, coats, shoes, boots—and don’t even get me started on the homeschooling materials—and any sale item I’ve been lucky enough to score in the past ten years has been a complete accident.

Haircuts are another thing. Since I’ve lived in the country, I’ve gotten my hair cut an average of probably once every year—and that accounts for a couple of two-year stints where shears came nowhere near my hair. Because a haircut is a time commitment—a chunk of time so huge, it just keeps getting shoved to the bottom of the priority list. I’ve always been a long hair person, but even more so in the country, where the length of one’s hair is directly related to the length of highway it is to the salon in the big city. Having a style that requires frequent trims for maintenance just isn’t an option.

Fortunately, both my girls have long hair too. And ponytail holders are a mainstay. The three of us are in such a habit of getting up, washing our faces, and pulling our hair back into a rubber band, that we all but forget that occasional haircuts are a necessary part of the grooming process.

 

A couple of days ago, though, my ten-year-old said something along the lines of “Mama? Will I ever get my hair cut again?”

I imagine this was similar to the time my oldest brother came home from kindergarten with his first illustrated story. The picture, scrawled with Crayola crayons, showed my brother, standing alone in the backyard of my parents’ house. And the simple, gut-wrenching caption read, “Doug has no dog.”

My mom still cites this as one of the five most devastating moments of her life.

They bought him a Basset Hound puppy the next day.

I didn’t buy a puppy; instead, I called a salon in the big city and made a couple of appointments.

My girls were excited. Their hair had really been neglected. Neglected by themselves. Neglected by their mother. Neglected by the world.

Uh…remember the movie “Nell” with Jodie Foster?

It’s the first thing that popped into my mind when I saw this photo.

I’m just being honest.

Gaw anja…gaw anja…gaw anja…

 
If you saw the movie, you’ll understand.

The same stylist cut both the girls’ hair, and though I didn’t really want to be a stage mother, I went back to the chair with them.

“So, what do you do to style your hair most of the time?” the stylist asked my oldest.

“Umm…” my girl began.

“I mean, do you prefer to blow dry it with a round brush? Or do you use a round curling iron? Or do you like to straighten it with a flat iron?”

“Umm…” my girl repeated.

I couldn’t control myself.

I had to speak up.

Our daily peace on the ranch depended on it.

“Oh, my gosh–FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD AND HOLY, please do not do anything that will require a flat iron! Please don’t do ANYTHING that will require a round brush! We don’t even HAVE a round brush! We barely even have a REGULAR brush! We do ponytails, only PONYTAILS! We have to do ponytails! Our daily peace on the ranch depends on it!” By the end of my outburst, I was in tears.

“Umm…okay,” the stylist responded.

My girls looked at each other, then spoke in unison:

“Mama, could you please leave now?”

I went ahead and granted their wish, scooting across the parking lot to a beautiful, glowing Starbucks so I could order about eleven cappuccinos. It’s the kind of mom I am.

And when I came back, the girls were all finished.

Wait a minute.

Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?

And remember my mountain girl? The one raised in an isolated shack by her paralyzed mother?

She’s not a mountain girl anymore.

 

It’s amazing what a difference a little pair of sharpened scissors can make.

The whole thing was so exciting. New haircuts. On a Thursday. The whole world was ahead of us! “Let’s go out to LUNCH!” the three of us cried with excitement.

Of course, we couldn’t. We didn’t have time. It was a long drive back home and we had to help feed the horses.

But we’ll try again sometime.