A few weeks ago, we were still doing a little gardening work. Well, I wasn’t. The guy I paid to do such things was doing my yard work. I called a friend who told me he had cut some shrubs at his house.
I continue to be surprised that he does some gardening work. Normally he is not the type to have fun outdoors, nor does he like manual labor. But for some reason he does a bit of yard work.
I told him I wouldn’t even know where to cut. He replied, “You just start cutting and you will see. It will reveal itself to you, like a haircut. It’s mystical.
It was the craziest explanation of gardening – and haircutting – I have ever heard.
But he cuts his hair and it still looks like me. He also cuts his mother’s hair and, again, still looks the same. He studied botany in college, so maybe there’s a connection between haircut and shrub pruning.
I don’t pay much attention to things like people’s hairstyles. I give my full attention to work, so when I’m not working it’s hard for me to muster the power of my brain to focus. My brain wants to relax.
While I am terrible with plants, my husband would not allow me to take care of his plants. Or the shrubs. Or the yard. So I have little experience in growing plants except for the years I grew a vegetable garden with my grandmother and I suspect that her extremely green thumb has saved the harvest every year.
When it comes to hair, I only dared to cut my hair this year when I was afraid to go out and have a stranger breathe in my face. When I was in elementary school I cut my own bangs after getting gum sticked on and of course it was school photo week.
In March, I just wanted to cut the tips, and it was getting long. So I put my hair in a ponytail, pulled it out of my head, and cut it. It was fun to feel the scissors crack through the tendrils and see the end result: even ends. I was so excited that I decided to start cutting my hair, so every four to six weeks I went through the same procedure, thinking I was in good shape.
At the end of the summer, I was more comfortable going out, so I dared to have my hair cut by a real professional.
I told my stylist to take off everything she needed to brighten me up a bit. I never expect miracles.
She gasped as she began to cut. Just a little, not to embarrass me, but to acknowledge that my hair looked like it had been cut for the last time with pinky scissors. (Aside: I begged my grandmother to cut my hair with pinking scissors.)
My hairdresser friend doubts this story, believing it made me think it was worse than it was, so I would spend the money on haircuts.
I like to have someone fooled with my hair. Plus, it’s great to get out there and contribute to the local economy while enjoying the company of others. Finally, I can’t see the back of my head, and I have to trust someone.
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