reign of the saturday hair

I don't like to get my hair cut. Professionally, that is. I have way more stories of haircuts I've given myself or Greg has given me in the last 10 years than any person my age should have. Most memorable among these is the 4 inches I cut off in Boston after an ex and I had spent 9 days wandering around in the White Mountains. We decided to head into civilization and have a nice dinner out (I even wore chapstick and heels, so you know it was an occasion!) and I wanted a new look. Believe me, just a shower and removal of my skanky bandana would have accomplished a lot in that department, but I remember standing in the bathroom with that awesomely clean feeling you only get when you've been dirty enough to make major bathtub rings, and cutting my long hair off with my Leatherman to about chin length. The thing is, I remember it looking decent. Of course, I've never really had the highest standards, but I liked that haircut. I also remember one birthday (24?) when I was simply going out to Old Chicago with Jess and Mary yet suddenly needed a haircut, and Greg cut several inches off right in our Robbinsdale kitchen.

Some people see little kids all dressed up and say, "Oh, how cute!" I see little kids (girls especially) with messy hair and say the same thing. I call it "Saturday Hair." Because Saturday is a day when you never need to comb your hair. You can be as messy as you want. No school, no church, no work. I love messy hair much more than I should, and sport it most days of the week. If "saturday hair" gets especially messy, the other name it can go by is "wild woman hair." I only go out to restaurants where wild woman hair is acceptable.

As most of you know, I'm in a wedding this Saturday. I was supposed to get my hair cut and highlighted tonight for the occasion, and I chickened out. I haven't had my hair cut since October 26 (I remember the occasion b/c it was Jessie's last day of work and Greg's birthday), so I really should have done it. But I like its mousy brownish-blonde color and my sloppy ponytail. Maybe there comes a time in life when you just get sick of playing by other people's rules, or trying to be somebody you'll never be. I'd rather look like me and be comfortable than look like somebody who's trying to be pretty or stylish (which I'm old enough to know I'll never, ever pull off). The reign of the saturday hair is not yet over. I don't think it ever will be.