The Holly and the Ivy

This morning, Dad and I went out to Grandpa’s front yard and Dad trimmed the shrubs while I cleaned up the clippings. The holly bush didn’t want to be trimmed. Or at least, the clippings didn’t want to go to the rubbish pile. Every armful protested with diabolical prickers. It felt like transporting a litter of baby porcupines, one by one, to the back yard :)

Once the holly bush was done, it was easier, though there was a good bit of poison ivy lurking around in the bushes. But we didn’t pick up much of that.

There’s something about my relationship with Dad that never ceases to surprise me. It’s when he encourages me to be what I consider “impractical.” While we walked last night I casually voiced (for probably the third or fourth time in the past week) the mind boggling dilemma of “to cut or not to cut” the shaggy mop of insulation I call my hair. Grow it out? Spend money cutting it? What about when I go to Ukraine? Different style? I thought out loud to Dad because I just needed someone to tell me to do what I wanted to do . His response almost made me laugh. “Go cut it.” And then he kind of told me just to do what I wanted to do.

But really, all I wanted to do is follow a worthy opinion. I’m not really sure where I got it, but I guess I always think Dad’s practical streak would discourage something that seems kind of unnecessary. But he sees it differently, and all my feminine mind needed for the decision making was a teaspoon of approval from the right source…

So it was off to the hair salon with me. It was a great adventure walking there myself, because at home, it’s never been an option to just walk anywhere, besides to visit cousins or grandparents next door. The last thing out of Dad’s mouth as I left was “Surprise me.”

The sun was doing its job with relish, and I arrived at the hair place flushed and starting to singe in spots. After about ten minutes, the lady came and started cutting my hair. I really wanted to take Dad up on it and surprise him, and surprise myself, but there was nothing to do really but get the same treatment I always do. I picked out the only haircut I liked from the book and she said, “Well, that’s what you already have.” It was true. Sometime I’ll try highlights or something.

So, she did a good job, and we had the usual innocuous conversation I seem to have with the lady at the hair place at home. For some reason, I am terribly nervous when I go to get my hair cut. It doesn’t actually have as much to with my hair as with the dread of being called “sweet-hawert” and feeling belittled by their honeyed niceness.

I always go in thinking I’m going to stay on top of myself, and then, somewhere between the first snip of the scissors and my bashful goodbye, I capsize and barely escape the salon with the shreds of my dignity. I’m not a Southern Belle, that’s all.

I love femininity, I love being a girl, and I agonize over the issue of beauty as much as every other girl God made. But I guess, for me, it’s an issue to be dealt with in quietness, discretion, and even a touch of reverence. The glitter and glamor and flippant pinkness is just too much for me!

I was pleased with my haircut, and laughed at myself on the way home for the fact that what pleased me the most about the whole matter (besides the lovely lightheadedness) was that I had saved $7 in gas.