Worst. Haircut. Ever.

This is a cautionary tale. A morals story. A life lesson for all the newly expectant mothers out there.

I recently visited my hairdresser. Emma has been doing my hair for years. She is a perky, fun girl who remembers salient details from customers lives, which makes that salon small talk so much easier.

At the doctor's request I had waited until after the first trimester to have my hair coloured. I arrived at the salon looking like an elderly Disney witch. If I offered an apple to a pretty girl she would have fled in terror.

I explained my uncharacteristic failure to smite the grey-growth to Emma.  All the other stylists buzzed around, asking about dates and names and all the usual post baby-announcement things.

Emma was more quiet and reserved. As the other stylists went back to their actual customers, Emma leaned down and whispered to me, "Were you trying for long? We have been trying for six months and it is so hard." Her voice cracked and my heart broke.

I offered a sanitized and edited version (why was I more reluctant to tell the truth to my long time hair stylist than I am to strangers on the interwebbs??). I simply told her we were trying for a year, which felt like an eternity. I made all the infuriating comments that had so annoyed me: "it will happen when the time is right", "you have to relax", "you have to look after yourself."

As I heard these inane words escaping my lips I cringed internally. I had become one of those smug breeders who could offer useless platitudes to the non-breeders.

I take my glasses of at the salon and am thus thrust into a world reminiscent of opening your eyes under water in the pool. I could not see what Emma was doing.

I heard the snip, snip. I felt the comb whisping through my freshly coloured hair. Emma and I continued to chat about things non-baby related.

Emma blow dried my hair as usual and then went to get the big mirror to hold up to the back. It was only when I put my glasses back on that I saw my hair. Or, more aptly, what was left of it. Most of the hair I formerly possessed was all over the floor. Big chunks of it.

My hair was short. Just touching my shoulder short. My hair was layered. All flippy and short at the back. Almost...... dare I say it? Mulletesque. 


It was then that I  noticed that Emma had clearly been crying.

I raced home to assess the damage. Sure enough, it is the worst haircut ever. It does not all tie back into a pony tail without weird pieces springing up all over. I cannot straighten it. The top layers at the back make me look all Billy Ray Cyrus (circa 1988).

It is not an exaggeration to say this - no two pieces of hair on my head are the same length.

I am also honest enough to say - it is my fault.

I should have  remembered that heart piercing, gut wrenching feeling when someone announces they are pregnant. How can three short months have erased that hopeless, helpless desperation from my psyche?

I am quite sure I will not forget again.