So here’s the thing.
My head has been buzzed long enough that I don’t really remember myself with hair.
Just so you know what I mean by a buzzed head: I mean a fraction of an inch to bald. Just so you know how to picture me: I am 5’4″ and have a wonderful little Hobbit body.
I love my Hobbit body and I wouldn’t mind giving it a fine head of Hobbit hair. But it just doesn’t grow that way. My hair is thick and fine. The worst kind of hair to obey instructions or so I’m told. That’s why I buzz it.
This might be a good time to tell you how I started buzzing my head in the first place. I had thought about it for years, but every time I mentioned it to my husband, he said, “Do you know the meaning of the ‘D’ word?”
This astounded me because Wayne adores me and I’d only heard him use the word “divorce” one other time. That was after the sperm store closed and I started changing my mind.
Turning forty is a big deal and when I did, I started yearning for a girl. Our three boys were lovely but I’d always wanted a “me.” I had a hankering for a girl so bad it felt like when you really want a pizza in the middle of the night and nothing’s open.
I started talking about artificial insemination and sperm-washing. That’s when Wayne started talking about the D-word.
I felt wounded and held a grudge for about a week. Then I went out and borrowed a daughter. She was five so it wasn’t the same thing exactly, but she was a girl and she was mine as long as she wanted to be.
This ended the D-word discussion until a decade or more later when I brought up buzzing my head and he brought up the unacceptable.
I couldn’t borrow a buzzed head so I waited until I visited my oldest son in another state. Then I borrowed his clippers and buzzed the right half of my head.
Oops! Well, too late to do anything about it. What can you do except buzz the left half, right?
So I did.
Here’s my reasoning about how it would go when I got home.
Wayne is crazy about me. He has been since the day we met. So I’d stay away from home until I figured he wouldn’t care about my head ‘cause he’d be so glad to see me.
I was right.
He just scooped me up in his arms and said I looked cute. Then we went out to eat and the waitress said, “Oh, you look like twins!” because our haircuts matched.
Other women’s reactions to a woman with a buzzed head are predictable.
Some of them love it and wish they had the courage to join me in buzzedness. Some of them explain why they think it works for me but wouldn’t work for them. (It has to do with the shape of one’s head. Mine is nicely round.) Some of them worry I’ve had chemo. Some assume I’m gay. Some think I’m a nun. (I have a nun-ish face.)
All of these are nice conversation starters.
Still you might ask the question: Why is it such a big deal for me to grow out my hair?
Answer: Because if it stays “growed” out, it will be work.
I am a blissful person at this point in my Earth story and I only begrudge one thing about my life. That’s the ten minutes it takes me to get myself up, showered and dressed in the morning.
I keep thinking I want to be around when women evolve into more wash-and-wear creatures.
Those ten grooming minutes lose my interest after about a second. This sends me on an all-expenses-paid “trip to the Bahamas,” a la Steve Martin.
Then, I have to keep checking to see if I’ve already done something or not. Like feeling under my arms to make sure it’s slimy so I know I rolled the deo. Or running my tongue over my teeth to make sure they’re squeaky so I know I brushed them.
That’s why it is a big deal if my hair grows out, looks better than it used to, and I decide to keep it growed.
Hair takes work.
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