Vainglory

I took a copy of this photo to my hairdresser, Maricriss, today. I was tired of my long-layered, shoulder-length, highlighted hair. I found it on an Internet hairstyle site.

The model (I think she’s French) is thin, with a faultless jaw line; she looks at you with hazel eyes, shadowed perfectly with the subtlest shade of taupe/gray. Her tussled locks indicate she isn’t a slave to the latest popular hairstyle (long layers framing the face, shoulder length, with highlights). Her makeup too is subtle – a slight blush on creamy skin, complimented by a bluish-red lipstick, no gloss. Although we see a small section of her jewelry, we know it’s gold. If the dress she’s wearing is off-the-rack, you couldn’t tell because it fits her as if Christophe Lemaire designed it specifically for her. Her age: a sophisticated twenty-five? A confident forty? Who can say.

She’s interested in what you think and isn’t quick to offer her own opinions. She is both, cool and warm, mysterious yet constant. Sophisticated of course, but not above enjoying a silly movie or a cold beer. She never goes by a nickname. Her purse is always organized.

Maricriss, personable professional that she is, kindly pointed out the characteristics of my hair: fine, curly, very curly, exceptionally curly. “We can do a version of this cut,” she offered. “It will take some work on your part to maintain the look, but let’s give it a try.” I adore Maricriss. She is skilled, knows all of the best restaurants and pubs, gives the most excellent head massage, and keeps things real. I once had a hairdresser who forbade anyone to bring a picture of a hairstyle into her salon for purposes of recreating the style. She maintained that clients would always be disappointed in the results because, in truth, the clients wanted her to make them look like the person in the picture. And, of course, the women in the photos were spectacularly beautiful models. I thought her position very strange at the time. Stylist eccentricity. Surely no one would be so dim as to believe that she would be transposed to look like the model.

If my memory serves me, today is the first time that I used a picture of a haircut as an example of what I wanted for myself. If you had asked me if I thought I would end up looking like Mademoiselle vis-à-vis my haircut, I would have thrown back my curly head on my short neck and laughed. In fact, I did joke with Maricriss when I handed it to her, saying something to the effect that I look just like the model, ha ha ha.

But as I drove home from the salon with my new haircut and style, I realized the bald truth: I really, really wanted to look like the woman in the picture. There is no way that I could have described above, how she looks, or how she thinks, if I hadn’t given it quite a bit of thought over the past few days…in my office, next to the bulletin board, where the picture hung. I didn’t think it with my conscious brain until a short while ago, but it was rolling around in the subconscious. I wanted to look and act like a French woman.

My brother recently went through a serious operation that impacted his physical appearance. I feel shallow and foolish, when I consider how brave and resilient he has been throughout his ordeal. And here am I, acting like a schoolgirl with a picture of Twiggy hanging in her room. Shame on me.

I have never been a beauty, but when younger, I could hit cute on a good day. As I grew older, with a little smoke and mirrors, I might hear attractive thrown my way. It was important to me then, and it remains so today – much to my vexation. But I will continue to work on getting comfortable with the woman in my bathroom mirror. She needs me to stop comparing her to skinny French paragons and to give her a break after all these decades.

I do love my new haircut. My husband is taking me out to dinner tonight. I’m wearing a sassy little scarf around my neck and I’ve reorganized my purse.