I've been busy working on a book about my mother and haven't had time to post. But I'm back, with a story in the form of a letter which I deleted from the book.
I’m glad you didn’t see the haircut I had at your funeral. The day before, I went to your hairdresser Glen, because he was your favorite. "No one cuts my hair like Glen," you always said. Well, let me tell you, Mom, no one has ever cut my hair like Glen, either! Instead of the layered look I requested, he cut an utterly ugly straight bob, declaring, “It’s fine, the layering will show more once you do it yourself at home.” It did not. Instead, bunches of hair around 4 inches longer than the rest appeared, sticking out randomly in several places. Not wanting to ever see Glen again, I lopped them off myself and forgot about it. But a few weeks later, my hair repaired, newly cut and coiffed, I stopped to visit a relative whose greeting confirmed the true extent of Glen's catastrophic cut: “I like your hair. It's much better than the one you had at the funeral.”
Two morals of this story:
1. Don't get your hair cut the day before your mother's funeral.
2. Don't get your hair cut by my mother's favorite haircutter, Glen.