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“So, what did you have in mind today?” asked Mary, surveying the wild, frizzy mass of hair on my head.

“Just, you know, do something with it,” I replied. “As long as it curls.”

Mary and I have an unusual relationship. I consider her an artist in hair, and she considers my hair the ultimate medium. For the past 10 years, I’ve been letting her do whatever she wants with my hair, as long as she meets my basic requirements, which are:

1. I don’t have to comb it
2. I don’t have to style it
3. Washing it is optional, and only done when I’m in the mood
4. I can just roll out of bed, throw on some clothes, walk out the door, and look fabulous

“I saw this fantastic new cut,” she tells me. “It’s all the rage in Europe. I can thin it out a bit, texturize it…”

(You need to know at this point that I have enough hair on my head
for three people, and it grows at a fantastic rate.)

“Go for it,” I responded with the utmost faith.

It’ll take a couple of weeks for my curls to settle into the new cut, but I’m already in love. And look! I have a face again.