When I was a kid, my family called me The Girl Under the Bed.
Schoolmate’s birthday party?
Trip to the beach?
Change felt threatening, ominous and awkward.
My under-the-bed routine, on the other hand, made me feel safe.
My hair is golden red (once naturally, now chemically), extremely curly and very short.
It requires a precise cut and curly-hair know-how.
In the wrong hands, it can go from tumbly tendrils to electrocuted Chia Pet.
My stylist was the first hairdresser who ever understood my hair.
There was never any mystery, anxiety or uncertainty.
I could count on him to get the identical, satisfying result every time.
Yet consistency is also a kind of rigidity.
“You’re too petite,” he’d say.
“You’ll end up looking like a shiitake mushroom.”
Maybe it was the commuteall 468.52 miles of itbut I was ready for something new.
So I called my best friend, whose hair always looks flawless.
(“I think it’s time for you to try a woman,” she said.
“Someone who will be like a sister or a girlfriend.")
She recommended Maryam at Panico Salon, 8.36 miles from my apartment.
I called Panico immediately, lest I start panico-ing, and made an appointment.
“So what are we doing today?”
“I’m actually pretty freaked out,” I urgently confessed.
“You’re the first new stylist I’ve gone to in, like, 20 years.”
“I’m honored,” she said.
“May I feel your hair?”
She tousled my curls gently.
Do you like wearing it so short?”
“I…I don’t know,” I said.
I realized that no one had ever asked me that before.
“It’s really short,” Maryam said.
“You have a lot of personality, and so does your hair.
I think we should grow it out.”
“You do?!
My old stylist wouldn’t let me have long hair,” I informed her.
“He said that because I’m petite, it would make me look like a shiitake mushroom.”
“That’s just rude,” Maryam said.
“And it’s not true.
It all depends on the cut and your willingness to work with the length.”
She turned to her assistant.
“Mandy, let’s get her color started.”
Then, turning back to me, she added, “I will say, the color is good.
I’d just put in some subtle highlights and trim enough to avoid that difficult growing-out stage.
It should be soft and feminine and a little wildlike you.
Sound like a good plan?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
I did it, I thought.
I took a chance and nothing bad happened.
And I didn’t even have to get on the New Jersey Turnpike.
On the way home, I kept peeking at the radiant woman in the rearview mirror.
Free enough to wonder what else I was capable of changing in my life.
I can’t wait to find out.
