For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel.
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty
heart. . . .
Julius Caesar Act 3, scene 2, 181–186
When I think of this passage of Shakespeare, it isn't treachery and murder I think about.
I think about my hair. Specifically I am thinking about a week or so ago, when we were getting ready to go to Stevie Wonder's family reunion. I thought I was in pretty good shape hair wise, until the weekend before when Wretch came to spend the night with us. And made the comment that started me down the slippery slope of hair doom.
"Mom I liked your hair better when you had it spiked. When you wear it like this, you look like you have old lady hair."
I'd left my hair a bit longer the past two cuts. Just for a change. I thought it looked snazzy. Until Wretch's comment. Then the night before the family reunion, I looked in the mirror and saw...
...old lady hair... I was going to leave it alone, I truly was.
But I made the mistake of storing my hair scissors on the bathroom sink. Right in front of my eyes. I thought maybe just a trim. Then I remembered the scene in The Banger Sisters, when Susan Sarandon throws off the yoke of middle class humdrummity she has mired in, and gives herself a choppy cute hair cut. With a pair of scissors. I thought to myself if she could do it, then so could I. I grabbed the scissors and started cutting.
I forgot one small detail. The Banger Sisters was a movie. Pretend. Fake. Susan Sarandon didn't cut her own hair. Some expensive Hollywood hair stylist did it and then they put the scissors in her hand to make it look like she cut her own hair. It was faked to look that way. But that never entered my mind at the fateful moment I picked up the scissors. All I could see was the end result. That I would miraculously be able to take no training or talent in hair design and turn it into a cut that looked like it cost a fortune.
I chopped on it. Then chopped some more. I noticed it was uneven and so I evened the sides up. I cut the back by feel. Blind. Without looking at what I was doing. By the time I finished, it didn't look too bad. I put plenty of hair goop and sprays and stuff in it and the next day at the reunion it looked passable. Sort of. If you didn't look too closely at the holes in it.
The problem for me was that for the next week, I kept trimming. Here and there, I would notice another spot. So I would trim a little more. I became obsessive with it.
My hair gets shorter every day. Stevie Wonder offered me the dog clippers yesterday to finish it off.
I huffed and gave him the nastiest look I could muster.
I just wonder how I am going to grow enough hair to have for Vix to beautify me when I get to California in two weeks. She's going to kill me when she sees it. Right after she laughs in my face.
...life is good. ~cath find me @jonesbabie on Twitter