Ratty Law School Hattie

I had my hair cut Saturday morning. I finally screwed up the resolve to lop off a good three inches. I've been avoiding it, because it takes so long to grow my hair out and this is the most I've had cut off in at least three years. But it needed to be done, and I'm sure my hair is healthier and probably looks significantly better. It's still pretty long, and yet, every time I look in the mirror it feels so short to me, shorn even. Guess I'm still adjusting. But sometimes, you have to do what needs to be done in order to look presentable.

Which brings us back to the story I'm interested in today. I had my hair cut Saturday morning. I arrived a little early for my 9:30 appointment (standard for me) to find that Joy, my stylist, was running behind (standard for her). So I curled up with my Starbucks (gingerbread lattes are back, yo!) and a magazine while ten, then twenty, then thirty minutes ticked by. And it's like Joy to run a little behind: she gets carried away talking and gesticulating and sometimes forgets to actually, you know, cut hair. But it's not like her to run thirty minutes behind. Especially in the morning, when I'm only her second client.

So I engaged in a favorite pastime of mine: watching people and trying to deduce, or fully fabricate, their stories. The girl in Joy's chair was an attractive young woman with little to no makeup on a beautifully formed face. She had long, blond hair, perfectly groomed brows, a trim figure, fashionably casual clothes. She alternated between refined, articulate speech and a sort of "valley girl" dizziness as she discussed law school (she was in her third year), her parents (impossible to please), reality television (OMG, she, like, so loves it!), and the boy in her life (probably The One, but mom and dad will never approve). Fairly typical, ambitious, Baylor girl in law school, I concluded.

And then finally, finally, she was through and it was my turn. As soon as Joy had me settled me into the chair and swathed in the standard waterproof cape she leaned over and lowered her voice. "I'm sorry I'm running so late but it took me twenty minutes just to comb out her hair," she confided. "She told me she hasn't brushed it in over two months!" Joy and I stared into the mirror at our matching reflections of shock and horror. I shuddered as I tried to imagine it. "You mean she just doesn't brush her hair? Like, ever?"

Joy confirmed this was true. Apparently "Ratty Law School Hattie" showers, she even washes her hair, she just doesn't ever deign to break a brush or comb through it. Even now, days later, I am floored by this revelation. And I am not a major hygiene stickler. I don't wash my hair every single day. I think over blow-drying can be damaging. I'm not above wearing my jeans a few times between washes or sleeping an extra thirty minutes instead of getting a daily shower. But not brushing your hair? Your well-below-the-shoulder-length hair? Ever? And then going to the salon and putting that rat's nest in someone else's hands and expecting them to deal with it? I just can't imagine.

And then, this morning, I came across this article about The Great Unwashed in the New York Times and it appears this is a trend, and the cool thing to do, and "kids these days" are not only foregoing shampoo and hair-brushing but also even just basic bathing and deodorant. What's next? Not brushing your teeth? Not wiping? I feel we may, indeed, be just a few, precarious steps from the steep side of that particular slippery slope.

And it's uncomfortable to think that I am this close to a head-shaking, fist-brandishing, kids-these-days rant, because even at twenty-nine, I don't feel I'm that far from the kids, these days, but there you have it. I must be, because I just don't understand this. Apparently, I am officially old, and out of touch, and fogey-ish. But at least I smell like jasmine and vanilla rather than body odor and sweat. Nor do I smell like Icy Hot and denture cream.Yet.