The random thoughts of an architect-turned- lawyer from the deep south living in Washington, DC...

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

I'm going to do it!...maybe.

I finally called. I just picked up the phone and dialed the number. I have had it sitting on my desk for a week, but wasn't sure if I was ready to call. In fact, I was pretty sure I was not ready. I was so nervous. I am still nervous. I called yesterday and I asked for him. The man on the phone said he would be back in about an hour, did I want to leave a message? Not sure if he would remember me, I said "um, I'm not real sure. Maybe I'll just call back." Then, he asked if I just wanted to make an appointment. I told him this is huge for me and I'm just not sure if I am ready yet. His tone immediately changed and he said "oh my gosh, sweetie, hold on, hold on!" Next thing I knew, there were two other people on the phone telling me they would take care of me. They even called me an emergency. They said to trust them, put my faith in them, and they would not let me down. So, I set up an appointment. I am getting my hair cut on Saturday morning. This could very well be a hairdresser's dream come true. I said "I don't care...cut, color, do anything but shave my head." On the other hand, this could be a nightmare like that time I bungee-jumped (where everything looked awesome from the ground...but, then when I got to the top of the crane and the man said 'let go' I just froze).

For those of you who think I am being a drama queen about a simple hair cut, you must understand I have worn my hair long my whole life. Actually, that is not true. I have worn it long as long as I can remember HAVING hair. You see, unlike most little girls, I didn't have hair when I was a tiny Law-Rah. Not until I was probably three or four did I have hair at all. When most other little girls were into pretty barrettes and bows, my mom was scotch taping things to my head. Seriously. It is such a sad story. I had a little pink blanket fashioned and sewn in a way that I could put it on my head and the blanket would hang down my back. I would walk around the house and pretend to have long (albeit pink) flowing hair. My mother took me to the mall once and a stranger said "what a cute little boy" at which point I turned and griped "I'm a girl, thank you very much!" To think, I was old enough to talk and have an attitude, yet still no hair. Ever since I was able to grow the long flowing hair I dreamed of as a child, I kept it this way. Of course there were brief exceptions like the fourth grade and that bad incident with my mother and a home perm. (Not a good sign when your mom finishes your hair and then starts calling you "pubis alot-is".) Anyway, that is a story for another time.

For now, I believe the time has come. I am going to let Milan, the little drunk gay hair stylist run wild with my hair. That is, if I don't change my mind before Saturday morning.