My husband had to do it for me. I’d spent the last two-and-a-half years waiting patiently for it, and when push came to shove, I didn’t even have the guts to shear it myself. I’m talking about my hair, and cutting off the last few inches of reddish-brown from the gray mane I’d been painstakingly growing out since my 34th birthday. It was mid-quarantine, and I couldn’t look at the shaggy, badly dyed copper-color ends any longer. At the beginning of the year, I’d planned a cathartic trip to Suite Caroline Salon in SoHo where I’d get a stylish haircut to flaunt going totally silver. Alas, as the days turned to months and we all stayed inside, I looked at the long strands, reaching almost to my waist, and realized that in order to save myself from looking full-on granny, a good three to four inches would have to go.
