Nothing terrifically noteworthy has happened of late, and with the early chill — it snowed yesterday in the mountains here — I seem to have started my hibernation ahead of schedule. Hence the lack of posts, interesting or otherwise.
But last week, I noticed that I was looking a bit señorona (the Spanish equivalent of dadame) with my over-grown hair pulled back in barrettes, and decided to get it cut a bit. My friend Marta put me in touch with her hair cutter, and an appointment was made. In the 24 hours that I had to wait, I decided I was going to give it more than the trim I’d first decided on.

Four fingers’ worth of hair on the salon floor later, I was feeling thoroughly liberated. Since it was chilly and rainy, and I’d just gotten over a cold, I agreed that it would be a good idea to dry it in the salon. (Usually, I just let it air dry.) And for fun, I decided to have a “blow-out.”

I love the reaction when my friends and family see me with straight hair. They freak out! My curls are so much a part of who I am, that it’s as if I’d disappeared. When I see my reflection, I do a double-take, too. It’s like I’m wearing my sister’s hair!

Weirdness notwithstanding, I hang onto my straight hair as long as I can. There’s a lot to be said for just brushing your hair and running out the door, as opposed to the machinations that we curly-tops have to go through even on a non-wash day. This time, I went three days before I washed it.

Mr. Pants heaved a sigh of relief when he saw me with my curls again. “You’re just not Rubi with straight hair!” he complained. He’s right, of course. In the words of the immortal k.d. lang, “All that hairdo, that ain’t me.”

Not quite news-anchor hair, but close.