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HAIR UNAPPARENT

Recently I learned Princess Di and I had more in common than occasionally wishing we were dead. We each chopped off our long tresses during particularly turbulent times. Unlike the princess, I had difficulty adjusting to my new shortness.

"It looks smart," said a friend.
"Thanks. Did I used to look dumb?"

The low maintenance was refreshing, yet the thrill of reduced brushing time and speedier shampoos quickly faded. I felt exposed-like being dragged through St. Patrick's Cathedral clad only in five inch stilettos and a thong.

Whenever I'd spot a picture of Paris, Gisele or even Lassie, I felt a sense of loss. I argued endlessly with myself: how could a "smart" woman like me be so entangled in her lost locks?

When I learned that hair grows at the rate of half an inch per month, I calculated that in the time it takes to become a pediatric neurosurgeon, I'd be my old self. How could I accelerate my residency in the Short Hair Club?

I'd never considered a weave or extensions, but now consulted the "hair pages" of the Village Voice with newfound gusto. The ads were packed with intriguing jargon-interlocking, individual strands, bonding, goddess braids etc. I began a telephone inquiry.

"I braid Then I sew them in place," said the first weaver.
"Ouch, I'll get back to you."

No needles thank you. Next

"All my clients bring their my own hair."

If I had my own hair, I wouldn't need to be your client Discouraged, I began the internal chant:
"Half an inch is better than none."

Then I found Brenda, an uprooted Londoner whose European technique sounded painless. She alluded to celebrities like Whitney, Naomi and Mamie van Doren (!),
which in no way damaged her case. The next day, as directed, I went to the "Adorable Hair Do Corporation" in the Flatiron District.

"Half a pound of 16 inch loose human hair, please."

Noreen knew exactly what I meant, and in a few minutes, it was in the bag.

I sped over to Brenda's, and before I could say "Anna Nicole," she went to work. Thanks to her talk show habit, after several cheating spouses and endless paternity tests, I was permitted a look.
"Amazing. It's like a Pantene commercial!" I said
swinging my head facetiously.

To myself I said,

"Christ, I feel like a Cocker Spaniel who's just had an
ear transplant. What human is this from? Was it sterilized?"

Next, the guilt set in. Thanks to my superficial American whim, a poor girl in a third world country was forced to sell her beloved locks to a "hair broker." Perhaps I could track her down and see if she has a matching child I could purchase...

I left with my ponytail between my legs.

Once home, much like a rescued puppy, I washed and befriended it. My shaggy new pet gets into a tangle occasionally and doesn't like a lot of handling, but we get along. Nonetheless, I know that my head is a mere foster home, and soon my curly buddy will not be with me. Perhaps because her days are severely numbered (three months at best), I don't yearn to permanently adopt her. Yes, she's replaceable, but the (literal) pain of attachment and loss, not to mention excessive cost, make her start to feel like an old college chum who's worn out her welcome. It will be a relief to have her out of my hair.

Learn more about this author, Hope Fairstone.
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