No hair cut for old women

 I have attained the Javier Bardem stage of hair growth.

Unfortunately, I do not refer to Javier Bardem as the animally magnetic Felipe in “Eat, Pray, Love;” the one you want to languish over apricots with under the Tuscan sun. 

No.  It’s Javier Bardem as Anton Chigurh in “No Country for Old Men.”

You remember Anton don’t you, the singularly focused, methodical, relentless, psychopathic assassin? 

Joel and Ethan Coen, along with three hair stylists and a wigmaker, created the uniquely comic and creepy look of Anton’s coif.  It’s haunting.  And not in a good way.

We don’t learn Anton’s backstory – a flaw in that critically acclaimed screenplay – so we can only speculate; but it seems plausible that it was the haircut that drove Anton to distraction and unfriendly behavior.  Just sayin’.

Now it’s my hair:  Comic.  Creepy.  Haunting.

It hasn’t affected my state of mind.  Yet.  But people around me have begun tiptoeing. 

They have gone from straight-on staring through a series of more surreptitious viewing strategies beginning with the sideways glance.

I told myself at first they were innocent squints out of curiosity.  I had also dyed it red, after all.

But their looks progressed from the inoffensive once-over to the stealthy peek followed by a sincere but quizzical search of my face.  Kind of a “What is she thinking?” sort of thing.

And now, the more thorough reviews are undeniable.  It’s as though folks are mesmerized by the halo of a forest fire.  Their gaze fixed just above my eyes; their noses lifted, expecting to catch a whiff of smoke.  Children tug their parent’s pant legs and point.

I’m just trying to grow it out!  Sheesh!

Cut me a little slack.  I’ve been through some radical revisions!  It’s not easy changing a long-time hairstyle, you know.  I wore the long blonde for a long time.  Now when I look at those pictures of me I barely know her.  And equally disconcerting, the reflection looking back from the bathroom mirror is also only vaguely familiar.

One of the ways I gave myself permission to cut my hair-that-had-always-been-long was the assurance that, if things didn’t work out to my satisfaction, I could just let it grow. 

“Hair is like paint,” said my hairdresser, Edwina Scissorhands, eagerly twisting her palms.  “If you don’t like it, you can always change it!”  she said. 

Ha ha ha ha!  No worries!

So I took the plunge.  I threw caution to the
wind.  I abandoned fear, acted brave and as custom dictates, in the springtime, like the sheep in the field, I let myself be shorn. 

People told me how youthful I looked.  I’m a sucker for that sort of thing.

I felt free without the weight of the mane.

But at last I had to admit, it was a little too Jamie Lee Curtis for me.  So, after a fair trial, I wanted it a little bit longer.  Just a tiny little bit.  And therein the trouble began.

From a flattop with fenders, I graduated to a pixie, only wanting the tutu, the dust and the magic wand. 

The back grew faster than the sides, so inevitably, a mullet emerged.  All business in front; and a party in back.

And now, Javier.

If you haven’t seen “No Country” you may not be able to call the effect to mind. 

Just picture a classic “Moe,” as in Moe, Larry and Curly.  Moe was the cranky stooge and one can see why.

It was the hair.  

A review of the Stooges’ playlist reveals a pattern in Moe’s behavior.  He’s always trying to bend others to his will.  He routinely resorts to violence to bring his point home.

And that’s what I want to do now – poke someone in both eyes at once.

But I won’t let it go that far. 

No, I’ll just go get a trim.  I’ll let her shape it up so it grows out evenly, even if it is at the pace of a teenager crossing the street in front of your car. 

We’ll feather it and add some product, some highlights, or lowlights, or layers or shape.

Yeah.  That’s it.  That’ll help.

Apricots anyone?