As part of today's haircut, the stylist offered to style my hair. She pitched the idea of ironing out my hair. Curiosity got the better of me. I've never actually had my hair straightened before, and I wondered what it would look like.

"..and the prince and the drummer and the fire girls
Couldn't get our guitars in tune
And I knew it was over when the sound man said
"I wish we were still in ..."

June.

Every now and then, it's fun to reconnect with someone who has been out of the loop for a few weeks, just for the sheer fun of surprising them with what's been going on in your life.

The road to hell is paved with hair-care products. I'm sure of it.

I tiptoed out in the howling mass of humidity that is pre-thunderstorm northern Alabama on a shamefully-girly errand: hair trimming. My photographic adventures at the Vienna Teng show had shown me that my left braid was a little longer than my right, and that if I wanted to avoid looking like an asymmetrical Pippi Longstocking, that it might be best to venture into...

…the hall of girlyness.
…the den of female iniquity.

The hair salon.

Somewhere between poise and thud I had the time to wonder, "What the heck did I slip o-" thud.

After verifying that my unexpected Sunday morning skidoo had not managed to permanently realign any bones, I tried to figure out what in the world had caused me to slip on an otherwise fairly-trusty bathroom floor. It only took me four days to spot the mess.

She reached behind me and weighed matters with a quick twist of her arm. "Are you absolutely sure about this? That's pretty drastic…" The feel of the weight coming off my shoulders was dizzying, powerful. Up until that point I had never considered it to be a burden; it was something to be tucked up and away with elastic bands or caps, or carefully restrained with a bow.

I was seventeen, and absolutely certain. "Cut it.""But it's…beautiful. You're absolutely certain you want me to do this? It will take you years to grow this back."

As she spoke, I took my glasses off and tucked them under the plastic robelike drape they make you wear (to protect your clothes from rogue hairs) while sitting in the cutting chairs. Without my glasses, I was blind—and had to trust. Trust felt sticky and warm, like the back of my neck, which was rapidly beginning to adhere to the nonporous plastic drape.