I stand before the mirror minus eight inches of hair. I told the stylist I wanted a shoulder length cut. I run my hands through my hair, this is not a shoulder length cut, more of a chin length. I laugh, it's fine. I haven't had my hair this short in over ten years. I like it, I really like it. Now will my boyfriend like it? I had to buy new hair ties because the three hair ties I own are dedicated to longer, thicker hair. The hair I used to have an hour ago. The wavy Summer hair, held together by a ponytail, laid on a counter besides brushes and a spray bottle. This cute bob demanded smaller circumferences of elastic. I picked out a packet of pink and black ties from the drug store. So long side pony.
I texted him that I was going to the salon after work. The stylist gussies up my new 'do and I chuckle. Little does she know I have to walk a mile home and there is no point to a gussied up 'do. Humidity laced with perspiration will make my hair defy gravity. I make a point to rush into the shower before I see him. After my shower I put on my favorite mint green camisole, which has an open back, and black underwear. I step out of our room and hear music. I walk into our living room and find him playing #41 on the piano. I smile, he smiles. Is he smiling because of what I am wearing or because of the cut?
I walk over to my laptop, on the dining room table, and proceed to play a computer game and check emails. He continues to play. Next up is Best I Ever Had. I look up at him. I've been working on that song. Getting the timing and chords right. He makes it sound exceptional. How does he play with his eyes closed while rocking his head to the movement? "Practice, my love, practice", he says as if reading my mind. "Are you flirting with me through piano chords?", I ask. "I don't have to flirt with you. You're my lobster." "Indeed I am", I say with a chuckle.
Ivory melodies summon the night and he steps away from our beloved instrument. In the morning we are a tangle of legs. I play with my hair and rush to the mirror. "What's wrong?", a groggily voice from our bed ask. "Nothing of importance". I use my fingers to comb through my hair. My mind is getting over the shock, my hair dittos that. Where emotionality and physicality meet aesthetics. "You are over thinking this as usual. Do you like it?" "Yes" "Because, I love it. Now get back here". I turn around and face him. My hands on my hips. "Ah, sexy. You look like a beach pin up model". I laugh and walk back to our bed. I love this bed and the man who lies in it.
Four days have passed. I love being free from all of that hair. People asked if I donated my hair to Locks of Love. I would have had to cut off ten inches and not eight. Though I do wonder what the stylist did with my hair. She didn't ask if I wanted it. It's in some black market hair bucket. Or is she possessing me with my discarded parts? I'll never know. This month I want to wear the color pink everyday. I don't think it will be terribly inconvenient for I am an effortless Pink Lady. I wonder if Rachel Zoe would even wear pink this month? I'm looking for pink hair bows like I'm a Southern Sorority sister. (Is this only about hair accessories. No. This is about how instead of internet searches I now mirror the computers of people I'm vaguely curious about. I don't do that, nor am I writing about that.)
Days have come and gone and we are eating dinner. Pasta and more pasta, what a content and delicious meal. We discuss our day and stories in the local newspaper. I turn to him and ask, "If God forbid something tragic like our hypothetical child was kidnapped and murdered. Is there a possibility that I would not watch TV anymore? No news or crime dramas. Which would suck because that is all there is on TV". "If this is a round about way of which you want to discuss True Detective. I can't keep on talking about it, Julia", says my boyfriend Gregory. "It isn't. It really isn't", I reassure him. True Detective season one, to me is perfection. I watched something that I was envious that I didn't create myself. Granted I don't care if Nic Pizzolatto allegedly stole ideas or concepts from other sources. The writing, the setting and the acting was spot on. I've over analyzed that season for much too long. As you can tell by his response.
