Me, My Hair, and I by editor Elizabeth Benedict Page B

go as far as “buttery,” but we have to be careful. We don’t want to look cheap.
    The highlights cost a fortune, but I can’t tell you the exact amount, as I’ve taught myself not to look when I sign the credit card slip. The tips alone make me blush. I like to tell people I have the most expensive hair in New York, but I know I’m wrong. Those women sitting behind Sally H.’s partition are certain to have bills higher than mine.
    When I was pregnant with my first child, Molly, I didn’t cut my hair. I felt like Björn Borg, who never cut his hair or shaved during Wimbledon, for luck. My hair grew and grew, finally long, and thicker than ever, due to pregnancy hormones and prenatal vitamins. I loved it. Then Molly was born, a large, bouncy, overdue baby. Everything was there—except hair. She was completely bald until she was two. Whose joke was that?
    I kept my hair long throughout Molly’s early years and those of her younger sister, Alice. The Spock eyebrows were professionally dealt with on a monthly basis so I could get rid of the bangs. I got my hair blown out once a week, and I turned into a sleek New York City housewife. My English friends described me as “glossy” with that same age-old inflection I understood not to be complimentary. Then the girls grew older, and their hair grew longer. It grew down their backs and it was beautiful. It made mine look like what it was, the older woman’s version of long, thick hair. Time for a haircut—a return to the shaggy bob.
    Coincidentally, my decision to return to the hairstyle of my youth occurred just before I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Was I aware of the coincidence? I’d say not. Instead I’d point out that most breast cancer diagnoses come in late middle age, and that’s when most women change hairstyles anyway. What I will admit to is a multitude of visits to the hairdresser before, during, and after my bilateral mastectomy. My body looked awful—swollen, misshapen, and scarred. But if you looked at my hair, you’d think nothing was wrong. A week after my operation, my surgeon told me I was done. No chemo or radiation in my future, because surgery had removed the cancer in its early entirety. The relief at not having to have chemotherapy was enormous, but as I recall I never once considered losing my hair. I just assumed there was so much of it, it would somehow survive.
    I found it soothing to get my hair done while I recovered from surgery. A beauty salon was the antithesis of a doctor’s office. It was a place I could relax and emerge looking better. Looking better made me feel healthier. It lifted my spirits.
    Later that same year, my father died. I spent the last week of his life with him in hospital on the British East Anglian coast. I was in his room practically round the clock and loved being there. I did leave one lunchtime to go to a local place for a wash and blow-dry, but I hated the experience and the result. It was the wrong time to look for an escape. After my dad died, I got on the train to London and went straight to get my hair cut very short. It was similar to my first little ear-length bob.
    I’ve often read about women getting trauma cuts. This was mine. My grief at my father’s death was enormous. I was completely engulfed by it. My bob cut back to my ears was its sign. The contrast strikes me now as I write about it. Long, long hair at the birth of my daughter; short, short hair at the death of my father.
    Some women might extend the comparison and say something along the lines of there being a reason I was born with thick hair. It’s a reflection of the richness of my life and so on. But I’m afraid that’s not my style. Still, it’s made me think about a period in my early thirties when I drove a convertible VW with the roof permanently down. I felt very Italian. My love life was a chaos that I remember as a series of unfortunate