Here's the truth: Haircuts are painful.
I don't enjoy staring at myself in the mirror, but for me what's tougher to handle is the expectation that seems to come with them. Where am I taking my just-stepped-out-of-a-salon self? Every single person who comes in contact with you at the salon will ask you some variation of that question.
And much as I'd like to take advantage of my beautifully blowdried hair, sometimes I don't have anywhere great to go. And other times I planned to but then plans change. And trying to swap appointments to suit, say, dates is impractical – partly because they're so rare, and partly because that level of fuss makes the letdown even worse. Never mind so I shaved my legs for this – I think: I won the appointment lottery (sometimes how it feels in NYC) for this?
The last time I got a haircut I ended up bingeing. I felt so desperate to do something with my shiny, swingy locks – and so lame not to have anything fabulous – that I went to a random party I'd been vaguely invited to full of people where I couldn't find anyone to speak with. (I suppose I might have tried harder to start a conversation – I think I was already set on bingeing at that point.) No one looked at me or acknowledged me, and I stuffed down cheese and sushi and then ate my way home.
Tonight I met a friend for a low-key evening. The people next to us in the restaurant were clearly on a date, and the friend always manages to meet men (and had, the week before, met one at that very restaurant). I didn't wish I'd stayed home, but there were definite flickers of what-should-I-go-gorge-myself-on-when-I-get-out-of-here?
Answer: Nothing.
Day 20.
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