grateful for: haircuts.

{mule day, 2010}

There's an episode of Gilmore Girls where Lorelai is so busy preparing for the opening of the Dragonfly Inn that she doesn't have time to get a haircut. Emily begs and pleads, and despite Lorelai's apparent apathy, she knows (like we all do, deep down) that her mother is right. It's kind of the joke of the episode, culminating in Lorelai sitting at her hairdresser's -- a place I think all women believe is sacred -- with soaking wet hair, only to discover there's been an emergency, and she won't get the haircut she's been waiting for after all. 

I've felt like Lorelai these last few weeks. Little time has existed where I can do anything outside of what's on my to do list. I don't know the last time I've had a haircut, which is odd. My hair is a source of comfort to me. I like it. Unlike my face, my hair doesn't break out. It requires little maintenance to look decent. The color hasn't been touched by chemicals. It's thick, not thin. It's prone to humidity, but I don't mind. It's a part of me I rather enjoy, like my feet or my freckles in the summertime.

My thick hair now reaches my shoulders, a place it hasn't been since about the fifth grade, when I grew my hair out in order to have a ponytail over the summer. It was a short-lived glory, since I soon tired of getting my mother to put my hair up for me (it was a task that, at the age of 11, was just too much for me to bear). This fall, though, I've actually enjoyed the length. I'm 24 now, so a ponytail is actually pretty easy to do. The problem, of course, is that my hair is thick, and I have little patience. 

I hate the time it takes to dry, and my hair is only slightly wavy, which means I have to straighten it; the waves simply aren't enough to curl. And although Jordan likes my hair longer, I kind of hate the upkeep. I don't know what to do with it. My cousin showed me some tutorials online, and I was completely inept. 

So last week, when my mother looked at me with a rather Emily-esque scowl, I knew: time for a haircut. 

The appointment was made, and yesterday, I went in, boldly asking my hairdresser to keep some of the length. "Just a little trim this time!" I insisted. 

Now here I sit at home, unsure of what exactly I'm supposed to do with it... all this hair. Not short enough to be my standard bob, and not long enough for... well, anything. 

But still, the haircut itself is just such a relief. 

One joy of girlhood, I think, is the act of the haircut. To sit in a chair and vent a little about our days and read People magazine and get our scalp massaged. It's a rare chance to sit and forget about all the commitments and reasons it's been so long since we've had an appointment in the first place. 

It's a testament to my own busy-ness that I haven't had the time to set aside an hour for my hair to be washed and styled by someone other than myself. I see, of course, that even Lorelai eventually made time for a trim (after, as I recall, having a mini-breakdown, which I seem to be having on a weekly basis lately). Nothing, I don't think, is so urgent in my life that an hour can't be reserved for a five-minute trip down the road for a haircut. 

And even though my hair's a little longer than normal, yesterday's haircut created the same reaction it always does: a deep breath and the feeling of a weight being lifted from my shoulders. 

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Throughout the latter part of November, I'm dedicating my time to the things that fill my life with joy. You can find more posts on gratitude through the month of November here.