I follow the teenager to the back of the salon, already presenting my case. I tell her she’s lucky I’m here at all, considering my history with unfortunate haircuts.

“How do you want your hair cut today?” they always ask as they swirl the plastic cape around my neck and stand behind me. (I feel like Patrick McGoohan in 1967, held on a sci-fi island of parasols and cupcakes, trying to make my escape.)1

I try to explain. I stammer. I have been so misunderstood and disappointed. I have stayed away for ten years, but today is a new day. I have an idea of a haircut that combines techniques of architecture, subtle topiary, and finesse.

A haircut that assures self-confidence, a touch of sophistication. Perhaps a hint of savoir fair or understated dignity. A design that promises to soften my sensitive spots, my vulnerabilities, while buffering the harsh effects of long cowardly neglect. I want that haircut.

I need more body. Layers and angles. Texture. Maybe different lengths.

Some spots are already like that. Leave them alone. But the thin, limp section, this needs a surprise.

It’s OK to go somewhat asymmetrical; otherwise we get into the shoe box thing.

Think Princess Di, or Suze Orman.

And it can’t require any special procedures at home. I wash and go. The cut just has to shake into place.

And the color. Nothing phony. I like the earthiness, the whisks of gray and white among the feathery field mouse groupings. FYI, I have covered it with a youthful cinnamon several times over the years, but most of that is gone. It was what one might call ‘can’t make up her mind’ speckled.

So if you have something that could add silver highlights and blend everything into a dramatic moonlit landscape, I’d try that.

She tightens the cape and tips me back.

After hawking up the personal issues and private concerns I have kept stashed for decades, I make the leap of faith. I relax my jaw, drop my head back into the ergonomically correct basin and surrender to the shampoo girl.

It’s all happening again. My scalp and skull merge into the foaming lather. The hydro-turbo rinse transports me to a waterfall by a Hot Springs in the Sierras. On the other side of the churning roar, the faint shout of a waitress to the cook:

“Number 6, Basic Helmet, No Mercy!”