In Other Words: 'The Haircut' - my post-pandemic mane attraction

Ladies, let’s face it, when it comes to our hair, we turn into creatures so obsessed and narcissistic that men’s eyes glaze over when the conversation moves in that direction.

Women who are cursed with the hair gene know no boundaries. There is no end to how long they will wax boring on the subject.

I, for one, have not been shorn for over a year, so you can only imagine the repercussions of that atrocity. Where once I sported a chic ‘do,’ for the past 15-months I have taken to piling my hair into a bun-like mass atop my head. At first, I referred to this as my Katherine Hepburn look. Now, sadly, I have morphed from Kate — who wore the look better than I ever could — into more of a wild bird’s nest. So, when my beloved hairdresser, Robert, agreed to tackle the job with a pair of garden shears, life took a leap into follicle liberation.

Robert, who has been tending to my tresses for several decades, has followed me through the peaks and valleys of hair maintenance and reconstruction. No one but Robert is allowed to tinker with my hair, but this time the challenge was daunting, even for a seasoned hair clinician like him.

While Robert didn’t exactly faint away at the sight of me when I let down my mane, I do believe I heard him emit a slight gasp. Pandemic hair, after all, can be a shocking revelation much like a Stephen King novel, except King is pure fiction, while my unleashed locks was a reality much more ominous than what King could ever produce.

When my hair was washed and let to fall to its own devices, Robert did in fact, let out a shriek, followed by the sound of his scissors clicking away, which resulted in bringing me back to some facsimile of my former pre-pandemic self.

There it lay, on the floor, 15-months accumulation of hair, which I actually thought could make an interesting rug if one was into treading on a bird’s nest. But, after much rearranging, and clipping, Robert, ever the consummate stylist extraordinaire, turned me back into a woman who would no longer be ashamed to walk the streets, head held high now in proud recognition of being hair resuscitated.

This past year, plus a few months, has left its mark on us all, each in our own personal ways. And if wanton hair growth has been part of the scenario, I have no business complaining. In fact. It is unseemly to do so. Many have suffered far worse. But hair is hair, and women worship at its altar.

Now that Robert has put me back in working order, I will admit I do feel lighter, perkier and less like Rapunzel, who probably suffered a string of her own consecutive bad hair days. I look more refreshed, and I am now ready to, once again, take on a “new normal” world.

Now, if Robert could get rid of a few other of my imperfections, I’d be eternally grateful.

Westporter Judith Marks-White shares her humorous views monthly in the Westport News. She can be reached via email at or at