Some people should not be trusted with making decisions about their own hair. The moment I uttered the words “Chop the whole lot off!” to my hairdresser, there really ought to have been some kind of automated court injunction process to protect me from myself. No, really.
Of course, I did the brave thing and smiled at and thanked my lovely hairdresser – who had merely done what I asked her to. How was she to know that when I said I wanted it “short” that I didn’t mean short.
“Hello, pretty girl!” my husband said when I got home.
“I LOOK LIKE A MAN!” I cried and threw myself into his arms, sobbing. My husband is used to this. He has, over the years, consoled me over a whole range of haircuts including the “I look like a Poodle!” one and that time I shouted “I look just like Jennifer Aniston in a fat-suit!”. He just hugged me and told me I still looked beautiful and only called me his “toy boy” once.
Later that same evening, I caught up with The Fabulous Miss Jones at a Christmas function.
“Just look for the man with breasts,” I had warned her over the phone in advance.
“Oh, you don’t look like a man at all. Not. At. All!” Miss Jones said when she saw me. “And if you do look like a man, you look like an attractive man so all the hot girls will totally fancy you.”
Which I think was her way of telling me that she totally fancied me. Because I was definitely mannish.
The next day, I rang my friend KC to have a whinge. “I’ve chopped off my hair and I look like a man with breasts,” I summarised.
“So have I!” KC cried. “I look like a 1980s middle-aged lesbian!”
“We can hang out together and look like a couple!” I said, thinking my real dyke friends would probably take one look at us and say to me: “Too much yang and not enough yin in that relationship, honey.”
Still, I guess I’m getting used to my new look. Slowly. Of course, I’m not helped by the fact I’ve developed a pimple the size of a third eye on the side of my neck, which my stupid hair is no longer able to cover. In fact, it’s growing so big that it may yet prove to be a second head.
“You should wear a scarf,” my dear friend KT suggested.
Great! I thought to myself. I’ll end up looking like Zaphod Beeblebrox from “The Hitchhiker’s Guide…” Except with breasts, of course. AND SHORTER HAIR.
It really is an untenable situation, especially at a time of year where there are so many parties to look fabulous at.
The only thing I can think of is wearing a hoodie until my hair grows out a bit more and/or my second head disappears. But of course the weather has been far too pleasant to legitimately walk around all hooded-up without looking like I’m about to break into someone’s house, so I’ll probably get arrested for loitering with intent by the police, who’ll then get so confused about whether they should throw me in the men’s jail or the women’s jail that they’ll have to get the local council to build a new unisex lock-up just to house me and I’ll end up on the front page of the tabloids as part of a “FREAKISH ELEPHANT LADY-MAN WASTES TAX PAYERS MONEY” exposé with me quoted as saying “You call this a prison? MY BODY IS A PRISON!”. And my humiliation will be complete.
Next time I decide to get all my hair cut off, someone stop me. Please?