The Twelve-Dollar Haircut and the Thing Megan Said

I have been cutting my own bangs with the kitchen scissors for the better part of three years. I would like to say I do it with skill. I do not. I do it with vibes and regret.

Megan finally lost patience with me on Saturday morning after pickleball. We were sitting on the bench in front of the courts, sweaty and pleased with ourselves because we had actually beaten the two retired guys who always cream us, and she looked at me and said, 'Lucy, I love you, but you are coming with me to Dani's on Wednesday and she's going to fix that situation on your forehead.'

Dani is the woman who does Megan's hair at the little salon above the bakery. Twelve dollars for a bang trim. Twelve. I have spent more than that on a single Target run by accident, on things I cannot now remember.

So today, between dropping Noah at preschool and starting the 11 a.m. shift at Miller's, I went. Dani sat me in the chair, looked at me in the mirror, and said, 'Honey, who has been doing this to you?' And I said, 'I have.' And she said, 'Well, I forgive you.'

She trimmed my bangs. She trimmed about an inch off the ends. She did not lecture me about deep conditioning or sell me a single product I didn't ask for. And then she leaned down and said the thing Megan was probably hoping she would say. She said, 'You look like a woman who forgets she's pretty. Don't.'

I sat in the parking lot of Miller's afterwards for a full three minutes and just looked at myself in the rearview mirror. My bangs were even for the first time since the Obama administration. My eyes looked like my eyes. I was wearing the same denim shirt I always wear. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

Here is what I want to pass along: you do not need a makeover. You do not need a wardrobe overhaul. You do not need a juice cleanse. Sometimes you need one woman with scissors and one friend who loves you enough to make the appointment for you.

I worked the rest of my shift in a good mood. Mr. Miller noticed and said, 'Something different about you, Lucy.' I told him I'd had my bangs cut by a professional for the first time in three years. He nodded gravely, as if this were a major life event. In a way, it was.

Picked up Noah, who told me a long story about a kid named Jasper who ate sand. Met Emma's bus. Emma announced, very seriously, that I looked 'fancy.' Mark came home, kissed me on the side of the head, didn't notice the hair. Mark almost never notices the hair. I am at peace with this.

It's five forty-five and dinner is keeping warm in the oven and the light through the kitchen window is the color of a peach. I'm going to set the table and call the kids and try, just for tonight, not to forget I'm pretty. Talk tomorrow. — Lucy