It was seven after five o’clock when I decided to call.
“Hi, I have an appointment at 5, but I’m stuck in traffic and I wanted to let you know I’m going to be late.”
“Oooooooh …” the receptionist at the salon put on her sweetest, synthetically sympathetic voice, “I’m sorry. But if you’re more than 15 minutes late, we’ll have to reschedule you.”
Life, or at least the circumstances surrounding this moment, flashed before my eyes: my odometer reading zero miles per hour, the sea of red lights in front of me, how this cut is four weeks overdue (for short hair, this crosses a line of propriety). I thought about how I go out of town in two days and have company coming in two hours; how I couldn’t find an available babysitter this week to give me some free time to get this done earlier; how I left my house later than I should have because I felt bad that my husband was under strict deadlines but I left him at home with the kids when he should be working to do something as frivolous as get a haircut. I thought about how I look like that dog at Westminster that my kids love—the one that looks like she has a dirty white mop on her head.
I thought about how this was my only window of time. I thought about screaming But I can’t reschedule! Do you know what I did to get here today?
I couldn’t not get this haircut.
. . . as the title reads, it’s not really about the haircut. Click here to read the entire essay on Coffee+Crumbs.