My Hair Doesn't Match My Butt

I got my hair cut yesterday. For most, that's not noteworthy. For me, I've been letting my hair grow, not necessarily because I wanted it long, but because I didn't know what I wanted. I've been going to the cheap cuts places about every six months for a trim, but haven't cut it in over two years. Yesterday, I went for a real hair cut. Not having my own stylist, I took who was assigned to me. I got Miko. Miko was every woman's fantasy for a hairdresser. A middle aged gay man that spent most of his career is San Francisco. How much better can it get? I sat in his chair and told him I was his canvass. Do with me what he will. He cut my hair with enthusiasm and flair. He took those scissors in directions I've never seen scissors go before. Miko transformed my two years of frumpy to Wow in less than an hour.

A woman had sat in another hairdresser's chair. Miko pointed out how much she looked like Mrs. C from Happy Days. She did. A younger hairdresser, I'm sure fresh out of cosmetology school was next to us. Miko pointed out to her how much the lady looked like Mrs. C. She looked confused, so Miko explained Mrs. Cunningham from Happy Days. The infant hairdresser asked what Happy Days was. Miko and I both dropped our jaws, not because she didn't know Happy Days, but because we knew what that meant for us. We were "older". I thought of Lindsey Wagner. What if I told her that I wasn't afraid of letting my hair grow because Lindsey Wagner only recently cut her hair. I can hear that conversation. Who is Lindsey Wagner? You know, from the Bionic Woman? What's the Bionic Woman? OK, never mind the Bionic Woman. You know, Lindsey Wagner from the Sleep Number bed? Oh, that Lindsey Wagner.

Miko had turned me around and given me the mirror so I could see the back. My hair was smooth and shiny and bouncy. It was twenty years younger than I am. I wanted to skip out of the place and let it bounce up and down on my way out. Then I remembered Chucky Cheese. I was standing in line with Nathan and Jayden, waiting my turn to order pizza. There was a little girl about four years old in line in front of us. She was a beautiful little blond holding the hand of what I was sure was her beautiful, blond mother. All I could see was her back, but her hair was long and stylish, her clothes were perfect and stylish, and she wore high heels. It was the butt. The butt gave her away. It was flat and hanging. I knew when I saw that butt that the beautiful blond mother was the grandmother. Once I saw her face, my suspicions were confirmed. That memory made me self conscious of my shiny, bouncy hair. Does it match my butt? Should it match my butt? It probably should, but my body has expanded outward and my face has expanded downward. Other than the color resistant grey, my hair is the only thing I have left that doesn't scream forty-eight.