So last week I ended my failed experiment at growing out my hair and wearing it darker by sitting down in the stylist chair and telling Summer to cut it all off and make me blonde again.
"I knew you'd come back to short. Short hair is you," she said.
Summer is also taking glass class at Fredrick's and we talked about what a great instructor he is, then moved on to the inevitable subject of what a wasteland life is in terms of decent men, and soon I was done. Short hair, blonde. Fine.
That Monday I walked into work and Maurice made a sizzle-finger on my shoulder.
"You are H-O-T HOT," he said. "I love a woman with short hair."
Many comments from co-workers, which puzzled me until I remembered that they didn't know this was my "usual" style. Even H--the female analyst who TO THAT DAY had never -NEVER!- said hi to me, stopped and said, "cute hair!"
Suddenly men are holding doors for me, being courteous in the El, not forcing me to ride with their armpits in my face. Men make eye contact, they smile.
No. It isn't. This is F*CKED UP.
I have not changed. My HAIR has changed. So what, this makes me someone worthy of consideration? Why was I not worthy of consideration before? Why was I not deserving of good manners and chivalry before?
My friend Muriel is a striking woman. A man recently told her that she was really cute.
"That's nice," she said.
"No, I mean it. You are really cute."
"Oh, what, you get that all the time, and you're used to getting all this attention?"
"Sir, yes, actually I do get that kind of comment a fair bit. And like I said, OK. Fine. I know that you think you're giving me some kind of compliment, but the thing is, my being cute to you has nothing to do with me."