Cutting up

Just when I think the quarantine has taken us to the far reaches of what we can do for ourselves, we reach another level. Back in March, sourdough starters and banana bread were all the rage. You could hardly go on Instagram or Facebook without seeing a lump of taupe-colored dough sitting in a glass bowl. Or a batch of brown bananas begging for their destiny. There were shortages of yeast and flour on par with the dearth of toilet paper we all feared. It even led one woman (I shit you not, her name is Caren White) to write a screed about how the rest of us baking were taking food out of her mouth. (Seriously, you can read an archived version of it here and a later screed walking back her entitlement and trying to justify it here.)

As the quarantine progressed, enthusiastic and enterprising folks explored the miracle of dalgona coffee (which, I’m sorry, looks like diarrhea mixed with milk); the wonders of homemade bagels and English muffins; the agony and ecstasy of handmade pasta; the dangers of self-shucked oysters; and on and on. The boundaries of what people were willing to try at home was wonderful. As the weather improved, many, including those who were not necessarily culinarily inclined, turned to gardening, even on windowsills and crowded balconies, and urban farmers were born. Photos of sourdough lumps turned to ripening tomatoes or sprigs of basil. And more succulents than you’ve ever seen in your life. 

There were also those more crafty pursuits. I saw a lot of embroidery (I saw two erstwhile projects that had been started when now-adult children were born, and finished in pandemic revisitation) and sewing (masks galore!); there were pillows and knitting; I even saw several quilts. There was woodworking and painting, revisiting of friendly old hobbies, since we couldn’t visit our actual friends. And puzzles! Oh, the puzzles. Millions of puzzle pieces were sorted and sifted; edges were aligned, blue skies carefully crafted as hours stretched into infinity. We were willing to do anything to pass the endless hellscape of time before us. (I, on the other hand, took up having isolation happy hour in the sun in my building’s parking lot, as I’m neither inclined to bake nor am I the least bit crafty -- hey, we all have our gifts.)

As the weeks stretched into months, many of us, myself included, found that basic personal maintenance could wait no longer. Manicures and pedicures were done at home. Friends sourced the best hair color brands on Facebook. Roots were attacked with a vengeance. But, with salons closed, there was little help for the inevitable growth we were all facing. I know a lot of men who went the clippers route -- and survived. I know some folks who got their hair cut outdoors by enterprising stylists who are willing to make housecalls. And there were the lucky ones who managed to take advantage when salons started opening again. Here in California, our salons were open and in the blink of an eye, reclosed. I definitely missed my window. 

And, so it came to pass that, this week, I gave myself a coronacut. My hair has probably grown three or four inches since March, and was getting a little straggly. With all the video calls I’m stuck on, I ended up staring at myself more than I like. I began to obsess over my split ends. My stringy length. The unruly flyaways. During one chat with a coworker, she said (very confidently, I might add) that she’s been cutting her own hair the whole time. And, to be fair, it looks great. She pushed me -- “you can do it!” But could I? She told me her technique is to gather it all up into a high ponytail, then section it with a second ponytail holder, and then SNIP! “Watch a YouTube video!” she exclaimed. I thought about it. For weeks. All the while, my hair got longer. And heavier. And stringier. (Or it stayed mostly the same and it was me who got heavier and stringier and...whatever.)

I watched a video. I sectioned my hair. I snipped. And boy do I have a LOT of hair. It was like trying to saw through rope. But I did it. And then, I fancied it by cutting into the blunt end of the ponytail to give it some texture (like I’m fucking Vidal Sassoon or some shit). Hair was everywhere! And I didn’t have one of those giant brooms like the salons have that scoop up all your hair in one swipe. I stood there, holding my mutilated ponytail in my hand, afraid to remove the band holding it up. What if I looked like that time Monica let Phoebe cut her hair on Friends and ended up looking like Dudley Moore? Or worse, what if my hair came to a triangular point in the back like one of those sister wives who has never cut her hair. 

I decided to embrace it and, come what may, there wasn’t anything I could change, anyhow. I pulled it down and it actually looked halfway decent. It was still a little too long in the back and the sides had a lot of layers that were probably mostly uneven. But it was definitely lighter and less stringy. And, to be honest, it wasn’t the worst haircut I’d ever had (not even in the top five worst -- there was one haircut in about 1996 that made me look like a 45 year old soccer mom...I was 21; or the time when I decided I needed Mimi Wallace’s haircut from Pulp Fiction but ended up looking more like a Goth little Dutch Boy; or the definite mullet I had some time in college). I fluffed it up and showed my husband. “It’s not bad at all for your first try.” A ringing endorsement indeed. And I can happily report that the only thing pointed was my husband’s compliment...my hair falls mostly straight across the back.