Splitting hairs

Yesterday I went to my favorite salon for a long overdue haircut. I strode in confidently and gave Anne, my stylist, my usual clear, distinct idea of what I wanted done:
"Ohhh, I dunno. Something different."
Having put off getting this haircut until my bangs were tickling my eyelids and my layers had melded into one limp, untidy, shoulder-length mass, any version of different would have been an improvement.
What I'm always seeking is a flattering, carefree hairdo. Nothing elaborate. Nothing requiring curling irons, gel, blowdryers, hair ties or barrettes. I am strictly a shampoo/conditioner/comb girl. This narrows my options considerably, of course. Add to that the fact that at the age of almost 50 I still have no clear idea of the best look for my face - the same face I've been wearing for, well, almost 50 years.
Anne, bless her heart, is long on patience. "OK, hon, let's look at a few books and get some ideas." She handed me a magazine full of hairstyle suggestions, complete with photos of obscenely beautiful women, including several famous actresses, who would look lovely even with mohawks. Fortunately, I have enough of a grasp on reality to understand that a side part and a few long layers were not going to turn me into Jennifer Aniston's double.
What women need is a hairstyle magazine showing ordinary women who've just rolled out of bed, sans makeup, pre-coffee. A hairstyle that flatters you at that moment in time is a hands down winner.
"What about something like this?" Anne pointed to a 'do with short hair in back and longer, brushed-forward layers on the sides.
"Uh, ok, yeah, something like that, I guess," I said, trying to sound decisive. And off we marched to the chair.
Being as nearsighted as Mr. Magoo, I never know what my haircuts will look like until the work is done and Anne hands me back my glasses. What I see in the mirror until then is a peach blur topped by a water-darkened brown blur. So you can imagine my alarm when I heard the other hairdresser in the salon exclaim, "Wow, you're really getting a lot taken off!"
"I am?" Come to think of it, I was feeling a draft on the back of my neck. I'd been so busy chatting with Anne, exchanging updates on kids and weighing in on the latest news, that I'd almost lost track of why I was there in the first place.
"Wow, you gonna pay her for that haircut?" joked the stylist's customer.
I laughed along, but under the protective cape my hands were slowly clenching.
At last Anne whipped off the cape and handed me my glasses.
Wow.
At least three quarters of my hair was now littering the salon floor. What I was left with was either a chic new look or a desperate cry for a hat.
I fluffed the sides. I stared. I thought hard.
I liked it.
The second phase of a radical new haircut (following phase one: shock) is the big reveal to family and friends. When I got home my friend Jan was waiting for me so we could go for a hike in the woods.
"I love your hair! You look great!" she said without preamble. I whined a bit (a large bit) about how it wasn't what I expected and I wasn't sure I could pull it off. Being a good friend, Jan didn't advise me to suck it up and quit bellyaching. She just kept repeating that I looked great until I ran out of whine.
When I walked into the house, my daughter Melissa stared, eyes wide.
"Wow, that's really ... different," she said.
"Well, I've decided I like it," I said.
Five minutes later I was whining, "I'm not sure I like it" as Jan and I headed to Little Presque Isle. To her credit, Jan did not throw me out of the car, or even threaten to.
To forestall another uncomfortable daughter confrontation, I called Jess to give her a heads up, so to speak.
"I just want to let you know that I got my hair cut. Short."
"And what, you're warning me?" Jess laughed.
Yes, yes I was.
And it was a good thing, too. When she came over later that night her eyes widened exactly as her sister's had.
"Wow, that's really ... short."
I've decided that this is an excellent haircut, a flattering style that suits a busy, creative, middle-aged woman. And having slept on this new hair for one night and then looked in the mirror, I've also decided I'm going to learn how to apply mousse to settle down my wild, wayward feathers on my head.
Hair is as much of a fashion statement as a Coach bag or a Chanel gown. But unlike a bag or gown, you can't toss it back in the closet if it doesn't suit you.
I'll be wearing this particular fashion statement for some time to come. Good thing I've decided to embrace my freshly shorn look and wear it with pride. It's the new me! Arty, stylin', carefree. And saving a fortune on shampoo.