I Just Can’t Wait . . . To Go Bald!


You know you’ve reached the point of maximum diva when you allow your last haircut of the year to become bittersweet.
I perched in the chair at Mane Street Styles in North Branch on Friday eager to see the bits of brown fluff bounce of the plasticy cape round my neck and onto the floor. And when it was all done, I sighed deep and stared into the mirror.

I needed to drink in the look. I knew it would be a long time before I saw that sight again.


Here’s your chance to call me Sarah Bernhardt Sager. I deserve it. I’ve gone off the deep end into drama; throw in some more glitter and I’ll be a diva yet. But please, allow me to build my case.

Friday’s visit to the salon wasn’t just my last haircut of 2010 – although I managed to get it as close to the end as I could. It was my last haircut until March 11, 2011, the day I’ll officially shave my head yet again to fight children’s cancer as part of the St. Baldrick’s shaving event at the Liberty Firehouse.

I’m not big on making new year’s resolutions, but each year I’ve sworn off haircuts come January (this will be the third) has been a test of character. I’m not going to kid myself; it’s nothing like facing cancer. I’m not sacrificing much, and I know what I’m getting into.

But every year the attempt to grow out the hair in order to have enough to feel like I’m accomplishing something on shaving day tests my willpower not to run straight back to the salon and beg for the clippers. For two months and 11 days, the hair that usually gets a good buzz once a month is bound to drive me officially crazy.

I’ll be challenged once again to sneak hair clips from the child who is becoming increasingly aware of what “mine” vs. “ours” means and is best at putting it into play when it comes to anything of hers. Last cookie is “mine.” Mommy’s favorite lotion is “ours.”

I’ll be required to actually combat bed head before heading to the post office (“night before” showers are called off on account of flat spots for the near future).

I’ll be pleading with the dryness gods of forced hot air heat not to turn these strands into a brittle nest that 10 years of short have left me unprepared to contend with.

It’s the one time of the year when I feel truly girly; the least I can do is act like it.

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