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Yesterday I got my hair cut. I gave up trying to grow it long. It just got too bulky and weird looking, like Bozo the Clown. I went to a salon that a local friend recommended because the hairdresser is really good with curly hair. And she did a nice job.

The hairdresser, let’s call her Beverly, had an over-the-top personality. She was singing and dancing at times during my haircut, and twirling around. As my friend put it when I thanked her for the recommendation afterward, “Beverly is a f*cking nut job, but she knows her way around a head of curly locks.” Beverly’s quirkiness made me feel a little free to be somewhat quirky myself. 

Beverly asked me if I had any children, which is of course the question I most dread. I told her I had a daughter who is 16. She saw Sarah’s picture on my phone and was asking questions about her. Is she mixed race? I have no idea where that question came from, but I decided to run with it. Yes, she’s part Puerto Rican I said. (???) At this point I just started telling whoppers. She’s a cheerleader. We are hoping she doesn’t go too far away for college. She loves Instagram and she’s learning to drive.

I’d like to go back to Beverly some day, maybe, and I’m not sure what will happen. Probably she will forget all about Imaginary Sarah the insta-driving-Puerto Rican college bound cheerleader. Of course, it’s also possible my friend who gets her hair cut by Beverly will tell her I have a dead daughter, and Beverly will be kind of confused, or weirded out, or think that I have two children, or some such thing. Who knows.