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I'd be a hairdresser. Wow, what am I, 70? Hairdresser? Surely, nobody in the business calls herself that anymore. Unless she's doing perms and beehives. Ahem, I would be a hair stylist, hair designer, even. Yes, hair designer. That sounds fancy and fun and creative. Except for one teensy little itty bitty almost not even important enough to mention detail: I am a perfectionist. A friend of mine who is a hair designer tells me that you cannot be a perfectionist and do good hair. Good hair, she says, is not perfect. It is not M'Lynn's brown football helmet ala Steel Magnolias. It moves; it has life; it is real. Real hair does not have perfectly placed streaks and straight across bangs. I did try my hand at hair design once: I decided I would paint blond highlights through my own hair. They turned out pumpkin orange and about 5 inches wide. Because I kept painting over the spots I had already done in attempts to create the perfect streaks. And I was so anxious about ending up with the perfect color, I didn't wait for the process to be complete and the color to change from orange to blond. There are no logical reasons to affirm me as a hair designer. I have no gifts or skills in this area. But it sounds really fun...it sounds like a job that doesn't require me to be perfect or appear to be. It is a way I could honor my creative streak--that part of me that begs to be freed of perfectionist woman, the part of me that wants to break up with do-it-all-for-everybody-all-the-time lady, the part of me that wants to create something beautiful, the part of me that knows that making and doing with my hands is important but often forgets how to do that or remembers but doesn't take the time to do or make with my hands. I don't give in to hair designer wanna be, artist in disguise (very heavily disguised) girl very often, but when I do, all kinds of crazy, unplanned, imperfect, beautiful things happen. The reality is I am a preacher girl, but I think preacher girl and quirky artsy girl could be better friends.
