I’m probably one of a slight number of people who would consider the amount of hair that was chopped off my head tonight a “trim.”

A new town always means the search for a new person to cut my hair and this is a search filled with trepidation. For those who don’t know me personally, I keep my hair very long. It’s usually in a bun which, combined with the cat’s eye glasses, yeah— I do the whole “librarian look.” I can also do the “shampoo commercial look” where a model whips her hair around in a frothy and totally unrealistic mess. The difference being that the model’s hair then looks totally perfect and mine looks like I just whipped it around.

In New York I had Olga. I miss Olga. A totally practical lady who was incredibly patient with my fear of scissors near my hair. With Olga I reached a comfort level of being able to give general directions and trust that I wouldn’t walk out of there missing half of my hair. This is a legitimate fear–I have two friends who walked in to get “trims” and lost over a foot of hair they didn’t want to lose because the hairdresser decided “he knew best” (both times it was guys wielding the scissors). I live in horror that someday I’ll have to fend off Nick from What Not to Wear (American version) because I won’t let him annnnnnywhere near me with scissors. Not that I ever intend to grace that show but anywho….

In Chicago I went to one of the wig mistresses at the theater. I didn’t ask for anything crazy because she was doing it more as a favor than anything else and she wasn’t charging me much. Plus, I mostly just needed the bottom evened out.

Tonight–>same thing. I went in and we discussed that I just needed a trim. And then I took my coat off. My hair had been tucked in my coat and the stylist’s eyes got big as she realized that my hair was well past my waist.

Five inches and about twenty minutes later, I was out the door. She did a damp (spritz not wash) cut, which was fine since I really wasn’t in the mood to sit through a full wash and blow dry.

Yes, I said five inches. If it had been Olga, I’d have told her six and some layers please. But this is Wisconsin and while K may just be who I let administer a much needed trim every few months, I’m not quite ready to give her free reign with the scissors.

So now my hair is back to my natural waist. Much more manageable.