So I was sitting on the couch today with my mother, watching some old schlock, and she looks over at me thoughtfully and, completely out of the blue, says:

"You should cut your hair, Rosie."

I've had my hair the same way for ages, ever since I was allowed to choose my own hairstyle. That is to say, it's down to my ass, cut straight across. I usually wear it tied back in a bun.

I know it's not pretty, but it's functional.

I know I should probably cut it. It's not a style that flatters my face.

But for some reason it rankled me, hearing it coming from my know-it-all mother.

"Why do you think I should cut it?" I asked casually.

"Well," she said, "right now you look so matronly."

She always makes comments about how matronly I look.

She would also argue the point that I said 'always'. But exaggeration is important in storytelling.

It's not enough to say: She mentioned it a couple of times, a reasonable distance apart, but the echo of the last time hadn't faded before she mentioned it again, so it feels perpetual.

That's just stupid.

But...I don't know.

She makes little comments like that all the time. Everything is clinical and carefully reasoned out and said so matter-of-factly.

In my mother's world, telling the truth and being a bastard are never the same thing.

Sometimes telling the truth is just an excuse to be an asshole.

Anyway. I know she's right. I wear my hair for function, rather than form. I like having the length, even though I know it's not particularly flattering on me.

"You know," my mother continues, "people judge you a lot on first appearance. If you want to get a better job, you need to look better."

I should note my mother knows shit all about being a theatre technician. She's an elementary school teacher.

"Looks matter very little in theatre, mom," I tell her.

"I don't know about that, honey..." my mother said. "Don't you think people judge you?"

I shrug. "To a point. But as long as I show up clean and appropriately dressed, people don't really care what I look like."

My mother just humpfs in reply, so I continue.

"It's not like I'm working with the public," I point out. "In fact, I NEVER deal with the public. All that matters to my employers is my brain and what I can do with my hands."

"I guess," my mother says, and that, at least, is enough to get her to shut up for a while.

Matronly.

Where the hell was she when I was twelve, and trying to figure out style and fashion?

Her fashion hasn't changed since the eighties.

I told her that I would get a new haircut if she did.

"But I did," she told me. "I got a new hairdresser. A Polish man who charges FIFTY DOLLARS for a haircut." That's a lot of money here.

My mother's hair looks like crap. Literally. It looks like what happens when her perm falls out and she's overdue for another haircut.

"Oh," I tell her. "I couldn't tell."

I really couldn't.

The other night I asked if she liked me new sweater (which I very much like), and she looked at me in silence for a moment.

"Well," she said, eventually, "there certainly is a lot of you."

Thanks, mom.

Merry freakin' Christmas.

.

Rosie.

Before&After