There is a picture, famous in a small circle, of my friend Angela and me on the occasion of the surprise 25th birthday party she threw me. I met Angela shortly after I moved to Denver when I walked into a salon in my neighborhood, laid eyes on her, and asked her to cut off my shoulder-length hair. The minute she put her hands on my head I was in love. The fact that the pixie haircut she gave me actually inspired people to stop me on the street and tell me how great my hair looked compounded my affection.
It's been years since I let my hair grow out, but lately I've been feeling like it was time to return to my sassily shorn coif. Yesterday I sat down in Angela's chair and let her go at it all over again. When she was done I think we both felt like it is more than a haircut; it's kind of like a time machine which transports us back momentarily to that time, more than a decade ago, when we were always together. For a moment I thought I caught a faint whiff of hedonism in the air.
We're both waaaay better-behaved now. But I had to take this picture as an homage to that fateful haircut, a famous picture, and the enduring love a girl has for her hairdresser and friend.