I can remember my last few haircuts well. The last time I had it cut was in the Gili islands, by a man who actually did a pretty good job for about $15. I was in my bikini and he had to wash a ton of sand and salt out first because I’d just been scuba diving.
The time before that was in a garden in Ubud, surrounded by free-roaming pet bunny rabbits. The expat lady who gave me the cut did an OK job, although it was a dry cut which resulted in hairy tumbleweeds being blown around the garden. These may or may not have gone on to choke the bunny rabbits.
The time before that was in Thailand. That was just a fringe trim, and before that I got the whole thing cut in Salta, Argentina, in a tiny salon, by a large lady called Maria who smelled of cigarettes and stopped halfway through to chomp on an empanada. That one cost me about $7. It was worth every cent.
Today’s cut was in my hometown of Spalding, Lincolnshire, in England. No one smelled of cigarettes, there were no bunny rabbits anywhere, no empanadas were eaten and I was not in my bikini. It cost a lot more too. A LOT MORE. But I was given a glass of wine while it happened and now it’s all shiny and red and just like new, which makes me happy. But it also makes me a bit sad… like I just left a part of my travelling gypsy self on the salon floor. Like the memories are all I have instead of the proof, because the split-ended proof of my sun-filled adventures have been snipped and swept away.
I’m supposed to look shiny and new and now I’ve conformed to fit the picture of a real person, when actually I was quite alright before, and no one seemed to care either way.
Maybe if I don’t brush or wash it for a while I’ll feel better. Or maybe I’ll just have another glass of wine and touch my new hair some more… ooooh, it’s sooooo soft!!!