A Preemptive Pixie

This morning, I went in for a haircut.

A “preemptive” cut, so to speak. Because news on the street is that my hair is going to fall right out of my head. And I wanted to save myself the drama of finding cat-sized hair balls on my person 84 times a day. And I definitely didn’t want the boys in my life to be alarmed by my coming-soon party trick that would have been pulling out whole handfuls of my locks off at a time. And I’m also told it can get pretty tender when it starts to fall soooo the less the better, I say.

So. I made an appointment earlier this week with my girl, Lynley.

She’s been taming my mane since forever and I couldn’t imagine a better person to help ease my transition from blonde to bald.

So we cut. And cut. And cut. And I kept saying the word, “shorter”. And so shorter, she went.

And I wouldn’t have even cried at all if she hadn’t insisted it was “on her” this time.

Further evidence that hairdressers do not just do hair, they change lives.

My hair will likely start to evacuate the premises within the next couple of weeks. And honestly, I want it to go. The chemo I am getting should make the hair fall out {only something like 1% of people don’t lose their locks from these treatments}. And I am okay with knowing it’s doing it’s job in every nook and cranny, going to town from the bottom of my toes to the tip of my nips to the follicles on my head.

So a preemptive pixie is complete. Just in time to see T Swift tonight with one of my best gals. Maybe I’ll start feeling 22. Stranger things have happened. Like me wearing a headband, for instance.