Almost Cut My Hair

New prompt and upcoming events.

Hair salons make me nervous. All the mirrors. I leave our house in the woods and think I’m relatively put together. (Showered, coat de-linted, winter boots checked for chicken poop.) But in the bright light of the hair stylist’s station, I’m pale, old, unkempt. I’m not wearing enough makeup and my sweater has obvious pills.

A., the stylist, says none of this because she’s lovely and kind and we have chickens in common. “So, what are we doing today?”

I like the “we,” as though I’m the expert, as though I have confidence in the image-altering process. But I was the kid who built fairy houses for imaginary woodland creatures, not the kid who practiced hairdos on the life-sized, disembodied Barbie head.

Terrifying.

Though I have prepped for this. I’m armed with a photo of a 25-year-old model with shoulder-length ringlets that somehow shine without looking wet.

I’d texted my friend who never lies. Can I pull this off?

What? The nose ring?

I took that as no.

But, in the chair, I look at A. and say,…