If I had a nickel for every time I did something that I knew for sure I was going to regret, I'd have a whole lot of nickels.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked.
I took a deep breath.
"Yes," I said. "I am sure."
"Really sure?"
I swallowed hard.
"Yes," I said, "I'm ready."
"OK," she said. "But are you absolutely ..."
"Just do it!"
And with that she picked up a razor and sliced off 10 inches, give or take, of my hair.
For some people, haircuts are a way of life. Not me. If I had a nickel for every time I've cut my hair — not just trimmed it, but really whacked it, as I did last week — I'd barely have a quarter.
When I was in fourth grade, my hair had never been cut. It fell in long, sweaty waves all the way to my waist. At recess, when we played Red Rover, my head would get so hot I feared it might burst into flames.
One Sunday, my grandfather, an occasional Baptist preacher, had me stand up in church to illustrate his sermon on what the Good Lord meant when he said a woman's hair is her glory.
I didn't know what "glory" meant. Maybe some kind of fire? After church, I asked my mother. She rolled her eyes. "It means your granddaddy is crazy about long hair, but he's not the one who has to comb it."
The next day, she took me to her friend Kitty, who did hair for a hobby, and told her to give me a style called a "pixie."
Kitty kept snipping until she stood ankle-deep in a pile of my hair. Then she spun me around to face the mirror. Except for a lack of freckles or marionette lines around my mouth, I looked just like Howdy Doody.
"Well," said my mother, "at least it'll be easier to comb."
My sister hooted. "I'll make you a sign saying you're a girl!"
Kitty was kinder. "Don't worry, honey. It'll grow out."
When my granddad saw me, he broke down and bawled like a branded calf. He never got over it. Twenty years later, the day he died, he was still carrying my long-haired fourth-grade school picture in his Bible.
I felt bad about that. But I sensed even then what I've come to believe: You can't wear your hair (or choose your friends or live your life) to please someone else, not even your favorite granddaddy. Especially in summer when the back of your neck gets hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell.
Still, for most of my life, I've worn my hair shoulder length or longer, except for rare occasions like last week when I decided, once again, to cut it.
Unlike Kitty, Julia is a pro, someone I would trust with my life, and even with my hair. She did a fabulous job. Everybody in the salon said so.
"You should wear your hair that way forever."
"It makes you look younger."
"It's very Meg Ryan."
Forever? Younger? Meg Ryan?
"It's different," said my husband. "I like it."
That evening we went to see Sting in concert. When Sting sang "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic," I had the silly notion that he was singing just to me.
Before bed, I stood at the bathroom mirror brushing my teeth and running my fingers through my hair. I had to admit. It was a little Meg Ryanish.
Drifting off to sleep, I felt my face smiling into the pillow.
Slept like a baby. The next morning I woke up and stared in the mirror. Meg Ryan was gone. Howdy Doody was back. And his marionette lines were deeper.
Oh, well. My hair will grow out eventually. At least, it's easier to comb. And my sister, no doubt, will be very happy to make me a sign that says I'm a girl.
Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson NV 89077, or at www.sharonrandall.com.