C for Crewcut

Years ago, when I lived in London, there was a very chic salon around the corner from our flat in Shad Thames. One day, on a whim, I stopped in for a haircut. The stylist, hip in her black clothes and asymmetrical haircut, asked me "What would you like?" In the mood for a change, I said, "Just do what you think would look best." Mind you, I had never met this girl before. She knew nothing about me, my life, my style, my hair. To this day, I don't know what possessed me to give her carte blanche with my tresses.

Midway through the cut, she took a phone call. I reached around and touched the back of my head and burst into tears. My cute, boring bob had been shorn completely - I had about 3 inches of razor cut hair left in the back.

I managed to keep the crying in check until I got home, where Michael claimed that he liked it and Jacob also showed support, but couldn't help pointing out that I should have expected such a result, given that the salon's name was "Man and Boy."

Currently, my "style" is even shorter, but is already starting to look a little scraggly around the ears. On Tuesday, I stopped by to give my old stylist in Murray Hill a look under the wig. She is convinced that, with her coloring help, I will be confident enough to go wig-free once the mercury hits the mid-90s in New York.

Meanwhile, the photo is the progress as of last week - note the grey "highlights" and seriously full brows. I am trying not to romanticize my six months off from maintenance appointments and be grateful that everything came back as it was before, but I can't help but wish that at least the Brazilian had been permanent.