|There's no place like home|
That was four years ago. One way I maintained my sense of self was every nine or ten weeks I would make the two plus hours trek (each way) back home to get my hair done by my hairdresser of several years, Glenna. Remember in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy asks "are you a good witch or a bad witch?" and Glenna says "I'm not a witch at all." For Dorothy, Glenna was her fairy god mother. Helping her to remember "there's no place like home."
This is how my Glenna was for me. She would greet me with a smile after my long drive and we would catch-up. She knew the story of my life. She was my hairdresser. I was always excited to see her. I always knew I would be happy when I left. People would carry on about how didn't I know there were people right here in Bloomington who could do my hair? But I wanted to drive back home to see Glenna. I would always see a friend for dinner or stop in to see family. I rarely drove back home just to get my hair done. It was a long day, but always worth it. Others upon seeing my hair or seeing a photo of me would say "I see why you drive back home to get your hair done."
A couple of months ago, I got in with someone here. Initially, I was happy. Liked it when I came home. Then I decided I would try someone else. My hair is very curly. Nappy if the truth be told.
Last night I went to someone totally knew. It was right in the heart of town. A very posh shop. The woman who did my hair had just shaved her own head- because she turned 26 today and "she isn't getting any younger." I was tense. When she washed my hair, she massaged and massaged. It was very hard for me to relax. She was great- chatting with me all the while. I took my photo of what I'm thinking I want to do when I head to Paris. "I'm not ready for that, yet, so maybe something between where I am now and what I think I'm going to do." She cut it all and then asked how I would like it styled- curly or straight. I looked at myself in the mirror and said "you can take a little bit more off." When I went to pay, the receptionist rung me up and then I remembered I had a coupon. We haggled and worked it out.
I left, walked to my car, got in and cried. It isn't that I wasn't happy with my hair- it is fine. It isn't that I didn't like the woman who cut my hair, she was very nice. It was being so tense throughout it all. Missing home. Missing familiarity. Missing someone who knows my life story. Missing someone who tells me about her family, too- the good and the bad.
I got home and Doug buzzed about me like a bee..."do you like it?...it looks pretty...are you happy with it?" I said "oh, yeah, it is fine. I cried." He said "oh, I know, I always cry after I get my hair cut, too." (Doug cries because he barely has any hair left to cut.)
My shop back home was like my tree house. I loved listening to everyone talk. I belonged there. I loved the magazines and listening to people yell over the blow dryers telling stories, complaining about men.
I'm going to get my hair cut one more time before I go to Paris and I just may go back home to Glenna. Why? Because I can. Because I miss my fairy god mother.