(44) Shear Indulgence

With a mere seventy degrees outside, the sun barely peeks behind masses of alto cumulus puffs of white so that the neighborhood I’m cruising through appears more dull and gray than usual. Though it might be the beginning of autumn, the windows of the Jeep are still rolled down since I just can’t seem to drive comfortably when they are not. Perhaps I have a rare case of car claustrophobia, or maybe it’s just because I got my license last year right when the East Coast was approaching spring. Whatever the reason is that causes my abnormal urge for having excessive winds, it’s beginning to present a problem as I hastily speed towards home.

Clawing strands of hair out from in front my eyes, I realize suddenly that the needle on my speedometer is way past the line where it should be, and reluctantly ease my foot off the pedal. It seems like presently speeding is more of a problem than it has ever been. It’s not even really speeding that is the problem; it’s spare time in general. Which ever adults have calmly told me, seemingly with great wisdom, that my junior year is going to be a “difficult” year have been greatly mistaken. Stating “the junior year of high school is challenging” is an understatement; eleventh grade, as anyone who has experienced it in the last five years can tell you, is just plain hell.

With great frustration I cram my locks down behind my shirt collar, having to quickly adjust the wheel as I begin to drive into the other lane. “Your hair is getting so long, Daria,” everyone tells me. I smile politely at their comments, not needing to be informed of the fact that my mane now hangs limply down my back like a new and improved miracle mop. I feel like telling them that I would cut it if I could. With PSATS around the corner, loads of schoolwork, and college preparation on the horizon, there just isn’t a spare few hours to splurge for a simple cut and blow-dry any more.

As I near the corner for my driveway, once again a gust of wind causes a mass of tresses to entangle itself in front of my eyes. Swiping them away as best I as I can, I eventually regain sight but not before I careen into the nearest dark green trash can. With a loud thump, like dominoes three containers fall over onto the pavement, causing the last one to dump old milk cartons and broken egg shells onto the freshly cut grass.

I have reached my last straw as I angrily zip up the driveway and park abruptly in front of the garage. After glancing at the clock above the dashboard, I make a decision. The day is Wednesday and it’s two forty-seven in the afternoon but somehow in some way I am going to chop off all this baggage now.

Briskly walking through the door and into the kitchen, I don’t even stop to grab an after-school snack as I pull down the heavy yellow pages. Flipping to the page with the heading “barber” I immediately start calling any number in the vicinity of Fairfield County. From Trendy Trims to Cutesy Cuts I receive the same answer to my desperate plea for a last minute appointment; “we’re full.” The very words of rejection stab me in the heart as I continue my cries for help.

“Why don’t you just schedule an appointment for tomorrow, dear.” My mother advises me unmercifully from where she is scribbling in answers to the New York Times crossword puzzle. I stare at her with utter contempt from where I am perched on the edge of a chair at the kitchen table. TOMORROW?! She obviously does not understand my present thirst for instant gratification. Tomorrow just will not do, it is an eternity away, millenniums, eons! This is not just a petty desire now for a simple trim, no this day’s haircut is my destiny!

Hungrily I search the page for a number I have not tried, a place I have not yet cried my woes to. It seems like a lost cause nevertheless, as I let my sight trail across the page. Then, I see it, way at the bottom in small, plain print; Colette’s Fashion Coiffures. My brows instantly wrinkle in puzzlement. “Coiffures? What the heck is that?” I wonder as I gaze at its title. It is under the heading of barbers though so it’s worth a try. Dialing carefully the number that is typed after the short dotted line, I listen desperately as it rings a few times.

“Hello?” A nasally voice screeches into the receiver.

“Hi, I know it’s really late in the afternoon but I was wondering if-”

“MARGE!!! Can you cut the blow-drying for a sec, I have a call!”

“Sorry, Hun, you’re going to have speak louder.”

“Oh, of course.” I raise my voice another notch and shout, “I was just wondering if by any chance I could get my hair cut today. I know it’s short notice, but I’m pretty desperate at this point!” I take a breath and cross my left fingers tightly so that my knuckles turn white as I wait for her fated response.

After a few seconds of hesitation the woman coughs and then throws back at me, “Eh, can you come in at 3:30, dear?” I nearly jump out of my skin! Have I imagined the words that have just fallen from her mouth? The very sentence she has just offered was more beautiful than if the Vienna Boys were standing before me in a chorus of Ave Maria.

“Yes, of course I can come in! The name’s Daria Knight.” I squeal happily, beaming at my mother with pride. “Thanks, I’ll be there soon!” I click the off button on the portable phone and start dancing around the counter like a madwoman.

“You and your charmed life.” My mother mutters as she fills in another few boxes. I barely hear her though as I race upstairs for a couple of twenties in the desk of my room. Before I jump back down to the car, I stop and glance at my reflection in my armoire mirror. Carefully I pull up my tresses so that once again the jungle of my lifeless strands does not hide my high cheekbones, sparkling eyes, and protruding mouth. Tossing it into a ponytail, I snatch my keys and bound to the car.

It isn’t long until I’ve reached Colette’s Fashion Coiffures, and eagerly I push open its glass door to enter into a small room. Though the walls are a pale violet, no customer present is under sixty, there’s no sign of life except for a single pot of fake fern and the only light pouring through the interior is from the fading sunlight outside, the sights of tall chairs, sinks, and blow-dryers bring joy to my very existence.

“Do you want to wash your hair first?” I look up to see a lady about my height with dark hair and eyes standing in front of me.

“Yes, please.” I mumble as I reach to slide my hair elastic down so that my locks tumble down my shoulders. I follow her to a chair in front of a sink and immediately she begins to soak my hair in warm water. Though water seems to splash into my eyes more than it usually does at a regular salon, the feeling of fingers running though my hair brings calm and peace to my senses.

“You want shampoo?” She booms. “It’s seven dollars extra.”

A little bewildered at the need to question the use of a cleaning solution I nod my head emphatically. Soon, a towel is wrapped tightly around my head and I am sitting in front of the mirror, my new hairdresser clutching gleaming, metal scissors.

“I’m not sure what I want, but I know I don’t want it this long.” I tell her indecisively. It is only minutes until we’ve agreed that my tresses would look best at least to my shoulders and soon she begins the risky task of chopping my hair off. At first, I almost squint my eyes shut with fright, terrified of any error. Eventually though I become completely calm, the sound of snipping and slicing easing my troubled mind. As each lock falls to the tiled floor, I seem to let go stress with it. All of the emphasis on colleges, SAT scores, and grades seem to float away as I happily watch a transformation of myself in the mirror in front of me. Soon it is all over, and my damp hair shines healthily, lying perkily just past my shoulders and making me look more mature and confident than before.

“It’s ten dollars extra to blow-dry your hair, but I’m not going to do that to you, Hun, so I’ll just let you dry it yourself.” As my new personal hero hands me a circular brush, I can’t be more exultant. Quickly drying it so that it curls underneath the edge of my shirt collar, she inspects it once more, and whips off the hair-covered black smock. I am so grateful for her service that I almost want to hug her fiercely, but instead just smile at her warmly as I hand her a five dollar tip. The door jingles once again as I step out and head back to the car, my new hairdo bouncing cheerfully as I walk. As I jam my key into the ignition, I glance at my glowing expression in the rearview mirror. Isn’t it funny how certain things just end up working out? With new motivation and hope I pull out of the parking lot, ready to conquer whatever may lay ahead of me during this dreadful year and forever in debt to Colette’s Fashion Coiffures. A haircut has never brought such imperative relief.