Maybe she’d shave half my head. I really had no way of knowing what would happen. There I was, sitting facing a mirror, decapitated by a black sheet. I had never had my hair professionally cut. Which sounds so posh, but it really only means that my mom is the only one who has set scissors to my locks since I entered this world. That is, of course, besides those few times I foolishly took things into my own hands.
I decided to pay a little extra for the shampoo and blowout, which I have no regrets about. After a week of being sick and straining my brain over questions like: “What is consciousness?” Having someone rub my scalp and rinse my hair in water was extremely soothing.
The next step was to try to convey my hair aspirations to my attentive stylist. As the lady snipped away, I tried to think positive thoughts. It seemed like a lot of hair was dropping to the floor around me. But after I endured twenty minutes of intense upward brushing and hot air blowing, I felt very girly and happy. I knew I’d have to get to know my new cut, but dang, I looked good.
I left Mastercuts that day with some more layers and a new hair product, ready to tackle the mound of homework waiting for me in my dorm.