I finally went to the hairdresser and got my hair highlighted to the color of a baby chick’s fluff, and chopped off about ten inches. It was now my favorite shade of blond, and it was swingy again, which was a vast improvement from the stringy brownness I had endured for the past few months.
I was not about to be mistaken for Gwyneth Paltrow, but I was still turning heads. The guy at the gas station said, “Great haircut!” as did the lady at the dry cleaners. Obviously, I had the air about me of someone who just spent an entire paycheck to look like a Clairol ad.
I couldn’t wait for my family to see the dramatic difference and offer their fawning approval.
I picked up Tall and Short from their friend’s house, and I started with the typical, “Well …?”
They did not make any favorable comments. Nor negative ones. They just failed to notice at all. I kept swinging my hair around and fluffing it up like a teenager on a first date, saying, “Do you notice anything different about me?”
“Yeah,” said Tall after my ceaseless prodding, “Is something wrong with your neck? ‘Cause you keep twitching it in that weird way.”
Now lest you think my haircut was not really that different from the old one, let me illustrate for you.
When we arrived home, Tall walked right past me in the living room, still oblivious to my new great beauty.
“Oh, no, Mom!” he cried out with anguish, “Someone moved my Pokemon card!”
That kid could get a job with the CIA.