Zero reason for spending time on my appearance

It's been eleven weeks since I had my hair cut. Shocking even for me. I try for every six weeks, usually make it within two weeks of the goal, and it's a frequent topic of conversation with my hairdresser. I use to schedule my next appointment when I paid for the current cut, but unknown scheduling with my kids' activities brought that to a halt, and despite emptying my nest, I never got back into the habit. Thus the eleven weeks of hair growth.

I'm not one who spends quality time on my appearance. I don't like myself in a mirror, especially now when my face is not that of thirty-year-old me who I am in my head. I'm also not satisfied with outward me, and I've made a NewYear's resolution to come to terms with that - enough where I don't mind my photo being taken. Something I truly, truly, hate.

During the eleven months between hair cuts, I decided my long hairstyle was not flattering, and I researched haircuts for women over fifty. Truthfully, I typed in hairstyles for women, and over fifty popped up in the search engine. Thanks, I'm sure in part to the many Amazon Alexas in every room of my house. The only offerings were of famous women, and I jokingly told my co-workers, whose opinions I was garnering, that I would march into the salon demanding to be turned me into Raquel Welch.

Hairdresser: "I hate to tell you this, but Raquel Welch wears wigs."

Sigh.

I knew I needed to go back to layering my hair, and with the help of my Friday volunteer co-workers, we decided on this hairstyle from this picture on the web of Faith Hill.

Hairdresser: "Oh, I can totally do that, but are you okay with losing at least two inches of length?"

My hairdresser has issues with shortening people's hair. She's had adverse reactions from customers who've lost their shit at their first glimpse into a mirror. She almost faints at the thought of trimming more than an inch from the head of someone with long hair and has hyperventilated twice at my youngest daughter's insistence of two different choppings. Now here I was asking for the same. My hairdresser insisted Faith's hair was even shorter than the two-inches she was recommending, and I agreed that mark was a good compromise.

First, she gave me more bangs. I could've stopped right there and been a happy customer. I've disliked my wispy bangs for a while now and had wondered if old age was causing this lack, but she miraculously made more, and I loved it.

Next, she moved to the back, and at the first snip, picked up the discarded hair from the floor to show me precisely what two-inches meant. I gave her the thumbs up.

Me: "Make me look like Faith Hill. Minus the blonde color."

I liked the result. Usually, I don't want my haircut until a couple of days later, but this time, I did. I really liked it. I thought I looked younger, and I felt great.

Hairdresser: "Don't be surprised if your daughters and husband don't notice. Especially the husband. Men don't notice stuff like this."

Yet, it was a dramatic change! Of course, they would notice.

Darcy didn't react right away. Home from college, she spotted me first, and when she did not respond immediately, I finger fluffed my hair to draw her attention.

Darcy: "I saw you got your hair cut. It looks the way I remember your hair being when I was a kid, so it's taking me a moment."

Me: "What does that mean? I look like Faith Hill."

Darcy: "I don't know who that is, but it makes you look younger."

When the eldest daughter also did not immediately comment on my cut, I assumed then my husband would definitely notice. Isn't that the way it always works? The opposite of what we expect? Also, how could he not?

He did not. He was more interested in the fact that Darcy was home as if he'd never known this was going to happen despite the phone call telling us she had scheduled a doctor's appointment and would be returning for it. I finger fluffed, I shook my hair from my face, and still, I got nothing.

The next morning Darcy and Tom were both in the living room when I entered.

Darcy: "It's so weird to see you see you look the way you did when I was ten years old."

Me: "Really? Well, at least you see a difference. Your dad didn't even notice my hair."

Tom: "I noticed you had hair."

Maybe if I start singing Faith Hill songs?