Taking the plunge

Well, I finally did it.

I went hesitantly and with great trepidation where everyone who spends any significant period of time here goes eventually.

I got a haircut.

Now, I am rather fond of my hair. It is dark, and it is thick, and it is shiny, and it is on my head. So, I am a little protective of it, and there are only two people I truly trust to cut it off. Every now and then, in my desperation and/or frugality, I have allowed other people—people with scissors and dubious qualifications—near my head.* And let me tell you, friends, four months without a haircut can make a person desperate.

So, I thought about my options, which were as follows:

1.       Don’t get a haircut at all.

2.       Suck it up and go to a salon in Dushanbe.

3.       Cut my own hair.

Over time, the first option stopped being an option. I tried to delude myself for a while, thinking Hey, it’s not so bad! This is a good thing, really. I’m growing a winter coat like a grizzly bear. Yeah! Psh. Right.

On to the second! This was also not a particularly attractive option. I reiterate:  I generally do not trust people with cutting implements to hack at my head. This ingrained aversion, combined with the language issue and what I assumed to be all stylists’ inadequate training, made me reluctant to go to a salon. Well, what else are you going to do? Do it yourself? Idiot, I thought to myself.

And that was the most compelling argument I could have made to convince myself that that was exactly what I should do. Just in case you read that with sarcasm, I’m going to repeat myself, and I want you to know that I genuinely mean the words I am about to write:  I knew it would be terrible, and I judged that to be an argument in favor of option 3.

I want to pause here to emphasize what a rational being I am. Going to a salon would be a risk. The person holding the scissors would either have the skills necessary to cut my precious hair or would not. I, on the other hand, am definitely unqualified. The outcome is known. So it would be the safest choice. Why hazard someone else ruining my hair when I could just go ahead and mutilate it myself?

I’ll get back to that.

Before making a definitive decision, I did some research. I asked friends with nice hair where they get theirs done. Ruling out all the answers along the lines of “I get my hair cut in Istanbul” and “There’s a guy in Almaty who does a pretty good job,” a clear frontrunner emerged. That is, if I decided that the salon would be the way to go.

I also used the World Wide Web to look up how to cut one’s own hair. I found one site that divided the process into pretty clear steps and had pictures. Ok, fine, the instructions were a little bit in Italian and the pictures were weird cartoons. But it looked manageable.

Being an active person who never puts off making decisions, I gathered this information and then did nothing for two weeks. Then one day—some call it Monday—I woke up, looked at myself in the mirror, and thought, You look like a barbarian. Fix it.

So! Ok then! Ok! What’s it going to be! What are you going to do! Say it! Say it now!

And I went to the salon and made an appointment. And you know what? I even kept it! The next day I went in and put my life into the hands of a young woman named Aziza. And you know what else?

She did a fantastic job.

Sure, when she shampooed my hair, she also shampooed my forehead, cheeks, and neck, and it’s still a little long for me, and she styled it with an amount of volume that would have been more appropriate thirty years ago than today, but those things aren’t really a problem. My hair is still dark, and it is still thick, and it is still shiny, and it is still on my head. Now it has the added benefit of being shorter, having layers, and not looking beastly. Who knew you could pay a professional instead of erratically opening and closing scissors behind your own head? What a world!

My eyebrows, however, remain off limits. For the time being, anyway. Maybe. We’ll see. No. But maybe.

*Remember the Tragedy of 2012? I do.