There comes a point in every woman’s life when she simply needs a change. Revamped geographical scenery is not enough, nor is a complete upheaval of her familiar quirks and habits. Even switching up her favorite restaurant never quite cuts it. Frankly, only one action can satisfy her inner longings…
Men, I don’t know if you can fully comprehend this inherent need. By nature, we women second guess ourselves. Does this outfit make me look fat? Am I fat? Why did you hesitate before you answered? (FYI, there is no winning that one. Tell her she looks gorgeous before she gazes into the mirror).
A haircut completely changes our negative viewpoint. Oh, you feel blubber-like, y’ say?
Today was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day?
Da, da, da, daaah…haircut.
However, men perspire when women in their life announce dramatic, lifestyle-changing intentions.
I was in dire need of a change. Deadlines loomed, midterms menaced, and I could not change anything but my hair.
Therefore, it had to go. I announced my intentions at supper.
“Dad. I would like to change my hair up a little.”
Carefully, my dad put down his fork. I could see mental cogwheels churning as he cautiously glanced towards my maternal parent, then at the remaining females surrounding the table, each with a determined glint in her eye. Defeated, he sighed.
“I guess that’s okay.”
We squealed, already planning our bodacious new do’s.
“But,” he added under his breath, “I hope it won’t be too…short.”
Subconsciously, my dad views each successful haircut as a bullet dodged. Though never a dictator, he does prefers our hair to look feminine, a view with which I heartily concur. Therefore, his hunted expression never fails to amuse me when I announce a dramatic hairstyle switch-up.
“Dad, I’m going shorter this time.”
Instinctively, he glances heavenward. “Ummm. Okay. Yeah, that’ll be good. Good. Good change for ya, sis.”
Before he can ask, I wave a nonchalant finger above my ear lobe, indicating the new length. Eyes widening, he nervously clears his throat.
Then I laugh, and he sighs in relief.
Yet another bullet dodged.
However, I know exactly where his mind goes, which is why I am so vastly amused. When I say “shorter”, his mind conjures this:
“Chin-length, Dad. Chin-length.”
Being an angelic daughter, I never abuse this knowledge. Ever. (Except for when I need a belly-laugh).
Finally, the day came. The stylist chopped off my hair.
I hemmed. I hawed. In the end, I decided to like it.
Now, however, came the judgment. Arriving home, Dad poked his head in cautiously, surveying the potential danger zone. No buzz-cut daughters immediately attracting his interest, he started upstairs.
Just then, I came leaping down, bob swinging freely around my jawline.
Reserving judgment, Dad stared blankly. Finally, he croaked, “That actually doesn’t look that different.”
I smiled blissfully. This was a high compliment indeed.
“But,” he rejoined sweetly, “do you like it?”
Self-consciously now, I patted my hair. “Well,” I murmured, “I did.”
“Does it make my face look fat?”