maybe if i'd gone to finishing school instead of graduate school

Of all of the challenges I have faced as an adult, navigating money and relationships and identity and societal responsiblity, the most difficult has got to be getting a haircut.

I know this seems silly, especially given all of the uberangst I've been spouting here lately. But anyone who's changed towns in the last ten years or so of their life knows what I'm talking about--the search. The dissapointment. The fear. The disasters.

When I lived in Charlottesville I had a great stylist, one I found after years of searching for a hairdresser who would not automatically chop off all of my hair just because it is fine and limp. When I moved up here I had to embark upon a two-year epic search, because most of the salons up here are pretentious, overpriced, crowded, inconveniently located, and pretentious. Also, they are a little pretentious. I found a great place in Pentagon City, but unfortunately my experience there was financed by a generous donation from the parental units and after that expired I couldn't afford to go back. This whole ordeal has meant that I've often gone months and months, in one case almost a year, without haircuts for the past three years. While I'm loving the long hair thing, I'm not crazy about this raggedy-ass thing that accompanies that practice and so I need to step it up and get a haircut. Last time, I tried out Elizabeth Arden, as their haircuts aren't actually any more expensive than anyone else's around here, and I really really liked the girl who cut my hair and I kind of want to go back but I'm scared because I was totally outclassed there.

I knew I was in trouble when there was an elevator to get to the salon. It was a private elevator, so I stepped in and pushed the button and, on the way up, tried to arrange myself in a pose that expressed class and confidence and the idea that I was totally comfortable in a day spa. I think it would have worked, too, except that the door opened behind me and the receptionists all got a really great view of my ass in its carefully arranged pose. Flustered, I stumbled over to the front desk, where the tall drink of water taking my name had to bite back a giggle when she asked if it was my first time there.

She walked me back to the waiting area, where there were cookies and apples and tea and water and all kinds of other things and I got a little confused because, like, did I have to pay for the buffet? No? Okay, then, I'd like a glass of water. Except I felt a little silly since the area was clearly self-serve, but she seemed to take pity on me and I suppose it made her feel better to pour me a glass of water. Or perhaps she was afraid that I would knock the whole kit and kaboodle over. Water in hand, I followed her to the changing area, which was a large closet full of smocks and a thin little curtain on the rod separating the closet from the larger confines of the waiting room filled with strangers. And then, she left me there. Alone. And confused.

I stood there for a few minutes, trying to look--in case anyone came through the curtain--as if I knew what I was doing. But I didn't, because I'd never taken my clothes off for a haircut before. I was wearing a sweater, so I figured, okay, that could come off, and I carefully hung it up and stowed my bag, a process that ate up at least three minutes of stall time. But my shirt, hmm. I mean, well, hmm. Okay. So I should be wearing a smock. That much was clear from the pile of them in the closet. But am I supposed to be wearing a smock OVER my shirt, or INSTEAD of my shirt? Another four minutes went towards careful evaluation of the smocks, in an attempt to determine how shirt-like they were. The answer: completely ambiguous. Some ties that could have been the front or the back, but otherwise just sort of drapey black things that offered no more, but no less, coverage than your average hospital gown.

Surely, if I were supposed to take my shirt off, the curtain would offer more privacy? That's good. Let's go with that. Right. I didn't see any other half-naked women wandering around there. Except it was quiet and to be honest I didn't see any other women wandering around there at all. Perhaps because they all knew where they were supposed to be. Perhaps because they knew where the good water was. I've no idea. All I know is, I finally determined that my shirt would stay on and the smock would go over it and I emerged, flushed and victorious, from the dressing room only to find the hostess still waiting for me with a questioning, slightly scornful look on her face. She asked me if everything was okay, a question to which I found the answer quite obvious and so refrained from saying anything other than an ambiguous "mm," which she could have taken to mean of course, I am completely at home here or no, you idiot, I'm clearly out of my league and should be taken out, shot, and dragged to the nearest Hair Cuttery.

When Heather finally came out to collect me for my haircut, she greeted me with a smile and a concerned, "Are you okay with your shirt?" I did not know what that meant and, thrown by the possibilities which included did you mean to leave your shirt on, you utter moron? and the less likely just making sure you're not one of those freaks who likes to take their shirt off, I got all dry-mouthed and flustered and reached for my water, which, of course, I had left in the dressing room.

Perhaps I'll just see how long my hair can grow before it just gives up and starts cutting itself.