My Hair of Many Colours

 

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I walked through the inside part of my neighbourhood mall the other day for the first time in nearly a year. It's one of those places that was built especially for seniors back in the day and was once populated with older couples lingering over coffee watching new moms negotiate with toddlers who want to ride the mall horse, or grab a toy from a machine with a claw that hauls in a fortune but never gives a kid a decent toy.

In recent years, the mall has lost its way. There are still small shops indoors, like a unisex hair place, a tailor, a dry cleaner, and a couple of medical professionals. But there's no place to sit anymore, and people have to go outdoors and cross the mall to get their coffee at Starbucks, so most oldsters say, "just never mind" and they either walk home or get in the car and go to Timmies.

I haven't been in the indoor part of the mall because of Covid. All the little shops were shuttered for months, and have only opened recently. So I decided to go in.

I landed at the beauty shop in my search for a post-pandemic hair cut. I'd never been to the barbershop/beauty salon/nail place before but I went in this time because it had the right ambience -- two bored hairdressers, no waiting.

I plunked myself down, and the stylist cut my hair without even asking if I wanted a wash or a set. She just took the scissors out and got to work tidying up the mess that my hair had become thanks to my penchant for cheapness and self-care.

I've become a bit of an expert on hair cutting over the years. As a single mom, I couldn't even afford the cost of First Choice so I cut my own. It isn't hard. Just pull the hair together on each side and give it a snip, then tidy up after a wash and self-style. 

Unfortunately, my skills had become rusty over the past few years after I was finally able to afford colour, highlights and a cut at a prestige salon. I didn't balk at spending a couple of hundred dollars being pampered. I deserved it, I thought, as I handed the stylist my card and paid the equivalent of a car payment for a couple hours of her time. 

The hair cuts were so-so, but the colour was fabulous, a nice dark blonde kissed by highlights in a variety of silvers and gold. 

Alas, those days are gone. The big paycheques are finished, so I am left with only a few sheckles at the end of the month, just enough to pay for dog meds and eye drops. 

Not much left for self-care, and sadly, it shows. 

I haven't told you the best part. Not only was my hair cut by me at odd angles, it had also become a mass of unruly silver strands mixed with about three other colours, most of them varying shades of blonde. That's because I made the decision early in the pando to grow out the bottled colour and for the first time in two decades let the drapes match the rug (or what's left of it).

Honestly, my mane has become a coat of many colours that would have horrified Dolly Parton. 

I tried not to look at it which was easy for me because my eyes are failing so badly that I'm now unable to put on my eyebrows without taking a selfie to make sure one is not lighter than the other. It's why I now wear big glasses that hide eyebrows that were never great in the first place. Without some kind of shading, they literally disappear except for a few strands that stand at attention and wave to my adoring public.

Maybe it was the empty salon, maybe it was fate. 

But there was something about a nice spring day, with news that the pandemic would soon be in our rear view, that made me take a chance and walk into the salon, and watch in amazement at how deft my hairdresser was at cutting hair on a client with a mask on.

As she combed my hair, I told her my tale of woe, about my hair of many colours.

"It's nice," she said about my top growth. "You have highlights."

Wow. I never thought of it that way. 

Sometimes it takes a complete stranger to slap you on the side of your head, and realign the marbles.

Get over yourself, Rose. 

Your hair was never that nice to begin with.