Happy New Y-Hair

It is done. The hippy hair that has dogged me for the last 22 months has been shorn.

My good friend’s sister, Lydia, performed the ceremony, and according to my mother’s wishes, saved the ponytail to donate to the cancer patients at sick kids hospital who need wigs after their chemotherapy. Sounds good to me, but it doesn’t seem like there’s much there to work with. When Lyd chopped it off, the rest of my hair fell dramatically forward, and Lyd and the other girl in the salon (who was waiting for her hair colour to “take”) gasped: I had the exact same haircut as Whitney Houston, circa 1992. Lyd called it the “Diva” cut, and she’d whipped it up on me in about 12 seconds just by sawing through my ponytail. After careful consideration, I opted to continue past the Diva style into the regular, non-drag queen cut we’d planned on, and Lydia did a predictably stellar job.

When she saw it, my mother almost broke down and cried with happiness. For me it’s a liberating and painless transformation. I like my hair short. The story behind the locks is rambling and ridiculous, but maybe I’ll write a little article on the whole experience later this month. Right now I’m just enjoying that strangeness of shampooing the new “fro lite.”