I’m not sure if this is a humble brag or grounds for high blood pressure for my parents, but I’ve had a lot of experiences in my short time on God’s Green Earth. Maybe I don’t always make the best decisions, but let’s just say this– my niece and nephew can rest assured that they have a wild and crazy “Aunt Boo”. Chalk it up to codependent tendencies, a desperate need for approval, a solid zeal for life… whatever the case may be… I make an excellent wing woman. I’m a strong contender for a partner-in-crime because when I commit, honey, I’m in it to win it. You want to find out a [name withheld] pop star’s personal take on his public fall from grace? Sister, I’ll help hold the therapy session. Feel like skiing down black diamonds right after I’ve had appendix surgery? With the help of a little liquid courage, I see no better time to learn how to ski. After all, I can’t fall if I want to continue with the healing process. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, am I right?
Of all the people with whom I’ve shared life experiences, I’d have to say the person I failed to show a good time and who I feel the most sorry for in terms of my behavior (besides any dental hygienist who has ever tried to work on my teeth while holding down my fists) would be my hairdresser, Jim, at Osgood O’Neil in Dallas. (I almost changed his name because I love him so much and I’ll track you down, reader, if you’re the reason I can’t get on his schedule).
Months ago, Jim mentioned to me that he would love to cut my hair short and I looked at him like he just coughed up a butterfly. I almost slapped him across the face and shouted — a la Marcia Brady in The Brady Bunch movie — “CUT MY HAIR?!” I even recounted his suggestion to his wife and laughed at his expense (sorry, Jim). A little karmic twist of fate, an episode of acute hair loss and a prescription to Men’s Rogaine later, I was back in his chair, begging him to just chop all it off to spare me the agony of watching my long strands hit the floor like rain drops. “Middle Child Syndrome” clearly offers no shortage of dramatics. (Sorry mom and dad!)
It seems like a good time to mention that I pity anyone who was in the salon that day, because I needed to be sedated. This adventure lacked whiskey, vodka, or tequila– it was a prime time to flex my anxiety-filled outbursts. I vividly remember his first snip and my scream “scalp, SCALP, Jim– I FEEL METAL SCISSORS ON MY SCALP.” Mhmm, I bet concentrating was a real walk in the park for poor, considerate Jim.
What I didn’t have in liquid courage I made up for in blindness. I took off my glasses so I couldn’t watch. The only thing I could make out in my peripherals was Jim chucking long chunks of hair over his shoulders as he worked. As I sat in his chair in a state of terror, my life flashed before my eyes. I replayed jumping out of an airplane, speeding down the 405 in San Francisco on the back of a motorcycle, marking myself with numerous (some regrettable) tattoos, posing for lingerie photo shoots. Every incident paled in comparison to the fear I had about cutting off my hair– which is going to grow back. And truthfully, I love the cut and freaking adore how low maintenance it is to style. Maybe next time– if he lets me have a next time — I’ll go even shorter.
The purpose of this post is to point out two things:
1. I got a haircut.
2. I am one weird, twisted, backwards individual.
Think before you ink,
Alex (Boo) // @theBoohemian
Photos by Kaitlynn McConville