If you’ve ever had a long-standing relationship with a hairstylist, then you know that you are part of a close-knit group. A hairstylist is the matriarch of touch-ups, relaxers, and a myriad of camouflage styles to help you through that awkward grow-out phase. You chat with fellow customers while sitting in the waiting area or under the hair dryers, and conversations that start with the color of your highlights usually lead to your personal life.

I am practically related to my hairdresser. Lisa is the cousin of one of my mother’s dearest friends, Glenda. Christmas dinners, New Year’s parties, and birthday celebrations have bonded us as family. So basically, they know all of my business.

Glenda sat down next to me at the hairdryers few Saturdays ago. “How’s E?” she asked. We began to talk about the various happenings in our lives. Caleb, her grandson, finally stopped using a bottle. My 18-month-old had learned to do the Hokey-Pokey and to count to two.

“When will your brother be home from school?” she asked.
“Brian and James Jr. will both be home in a couple of weeks,” I said.
Glenda frowned. “Who’s James Jr.?” she asked.

“My brother,” I said. “He’s Big James’ son.”

“James?!! Your daddy?”

“Yep,” I nodded.

“When did you start talking to him?”

“ A couple of years ago,” I replied. “He found a way to get in touch with me.”

I’m not sure how my mother met my birth father, because I’ve honestly never been interested enough to ask. I was born a few months after my mother graduated from college. They were together until I was about seven or eight. After a conversation about how their breakup was not my fault, James fell off of the face of the earth. He showed up unceremoniously, 17 years later, with a wife and son.

Our reunion has been far from picture-perfect. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. “Your mother —”

“Whatever,” I cut him off before he could finish the sentence.

We really haven’t had too much to say to each other since. James Jr, and I talk quite a bit, and he tries to spoil his niece every chance he gets.

“I remember when your mom and I worked together,” Glenda said. “James worked in the same building, and Maxine would walk past him as if he wasn’t there. He would try to call to say that he wanted to see you, and she would hang up on him. I didn’t understand how she could ignore him so easily.”

I could. My mother discovered something that I learned when I reached nearly that same age. I was dating Charles, an engineer with an alluring voice and a disarming smile. Charles was charming and attentive for the three months, and then he started to focus on new conquests. As we were having dinner one night, he asked “Do you think that I am blocking your blessing?”

“Say what?” I looked up from my plate.

“I think you want something more than what I’m willing to give. Maybe by seeing me, you are missing the opportunity for what you really want.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone can block my blessings but me. If I know that I’m doing something that is contrary to what I want, then that’s my fault, not yours.”

In the two weeks following that moment, I saw a selfish and manipulative side to Charles that I had been too enchanted to see. We were through.

I ran into him later that year at a club. He stopped me to ask if we could be friends. “I know that I was really selfish, and I’ve changed. Don’t give up on me.”

“Congratulations,” I replied. “Although, that changes nothing for me. My life is moving in a good direction without you, and it isn’t necessary for me to change that. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Ever?” he asked.

“Never,” I said.

My actions could be mistaken for bitterness, but they are really based on insight. Distancing myself from Charles gave me the space I needed to gain a little perspective. In a way, he was right. He was blocking my blessing, but I allowed him to be there. Charles was not for me in any way — not as a friend, and certainly not as a boyfriend.

When my mother split from James, I believe that she discovered the same thing. James was not what she wanted for herself or for her daughter, so that was that. When you figure out that a person has no place in your life, you really don’t have anything to say.

Some may argue that her situation was different because she had a child, but that is another blog for another day.

It’s been four years since I spoke to Charles, and I haven’t regretted it a bit. He showed up at a party that a friend of mine was having during the holidays.

“Ughh, I don’t know who invited him,” she said.

“No worries,” I told her. “It’s fine.”

He tired to move my way a couple of times, but he gave up after I excused myself from a conversation when he stood next to me. No need to block any more blessings.

Sometimes the best advice is given to you by perfect or near-perfect strangers. My friends have sent e-mails from time to time reminding me to update this blog. But what got me in gear was a friend of a friend, who has checked my blog faithfully for nearly a year. Too bad she has had to look at the same entries for the past two months.

So thank you, Lady Reid, my sister in lactation humiliation, for reminding me to get back to it. I really needed the swift kick in the butt.

My blasts from the past always show up at the most inopportune times. My hair is usually undone, or I’ve just thrown on any old thing to take a quick trip to grocery store. I don’t know how often I’ve run into an old high school or college acquaintance after a 60-minute workout. My sore muscle hobble and paint-splattered sweatpants are the perfect look for a reunion.

These days, I need to be even more careful. I have to look out not only for my appearance, but E’s as well. Nothing raises an eyebrow faster than a snotty-nosed kid with fuzzy braids and graham-cracker-crumbed T-shirt. And you lose even more points if you accompany a disheveled child while being dressed to the nines.

Luck was on my side a coupe of weeks ago, however, when a familiar face walked into my doctor’s office. I looked down at my outfit to check that it matched and threw on a little lip gloss while I tried to put a name to the face. It was Andre, the best friend of my ex-boyfriend, Glenn.

Glenn and I were high school sweethearts. We tried to sustain our relationship through college and grad school, but neither of us knew how to deal with change. Instead of growing closer, we only ended up hurting each other. We broke up after my first year of grad school. The next summer, Glenn went to Switzerland with a girl from one of his classes. Or maybe it was Sweden. After a month away, he called to see when we could see each other again. I told him that we couldn’t. That was seven years ago.

When Andre walked into the lobby that day, he stopped at the sign in sheet, took a seat, and dialed his cell phone. I though about how I would approach him, because I wanted to seem only mildly curious.

The truth is, I was itching with curiosity. I’ve always wondered what happened to Glenn. I wanted to pull out the score sheet and compare our lives blow for blow. I wanted to be triumphant, and most of all, I wanted a story to share with my girlfriends.

The receptionist called me to fill out some paperwork. Andre stood and walked toward me. He handed me a slip of paper with Glenn’s name on it. I faked surprise.

“Oh, wow! How are you?”

We chatted for a moment. He told me that Glenn’s in Phoenix; he’s been there for a few years. Andre said that he recognized me right away, and he called Glenn to see if he wanted to keep in touch.

The nurse called my name to escort me to an exam room. I could barely sit still during the appointment. Did Glenn ever pursue his dream of fashion modeling? How did his fling with electrical engineering turn out? Did he continue a long-distance romance with the white girl he took to Sweden? Or was it Switzerland?

After a week and a half of phone tag and a brief interruption of telephone service (his, not mine), Glenn and I finally had a chance to talk.

His life was good. He moved to Phoenix for school, and he ended up working full-time for an insurance agency. Yes, he is still single (“You know me,” he said), but he is in a new relationship that seems to be moving in a positive direction.

I told him about my last seven years. About my guy. About E. About my family. “Yes, my brother is in college now, you wouldn’t recognize him.” I told him that I cut my hair. “It was just more me,” I said. He agreed. I was surprised, because this is the guy who would check every trim after a visit to the hairstylist.

We said our goodbyes after two hours. We promised to keep in touch.

And surprisingly, I meant it. After I got the information I wanted, it no longer seemed important. It simply was nice to catch up with an old friend.

E woke up from her nap, and we went into the backyard to blow bubbles. Details of the past two hours were overshadowed by her giggles as the bubbles floated in the air. It appears that I let go of the past a long time ago.

There are two movies that come to mind when I think of long hair. The first one is The Color Purple. Young Celie was just wed to the evil Mister and had to pick out his daughter’s matted hair because it hadn’t been combed since his first wife died. Mister told Celie not to cut the girls tangled mop, then slapped his bride for refusing to quiet the screaming child.

The second is Waiting to Exhale. Bernie (Angela Bassett) had just found out that her husband was leaving her for a white woman. After a week-long stint in bed, she walked into her friend’s salon and demanded the shortest haircut imaginable. “Are you crazy?” the friend yelled.

“If you don’t do it, I’ll cut it my damn self!” Bernadette grabbed the scissors and chopped off a plug of two-foot long hair.

Those movies scenes don’t appear to have anything in common, but for me, they clarified the relationship between hair and self-esteem. I can’t think of too many women who feel good about themselves while sporting a jacked up hairstyle. And I am no exception. When my hair isn’t to my liking, I don’t feel quite like myself. I’m a little grumpier in the mornings. Outfits don’t seem to look right.

The two women in those movies had an even deeper connection to hair. They allowed their characters to be defined by someone else, specifically men. The Exhale scene was hard for me to watch the first time because I was dating someone who believed that short hair was a practically a sin. That clown would check my hair every time I came from the salon to see if my stylist had trimmed it any.

When I decided to cut my hair seven years ago, my hairstylist’s reaction was similar to the one in the movie. “Are you sure?” she asked. After I answered the question several more times, she opened the drawer at her station and pulled out the scissors.

“Wait! You can’t cut your hair,” a customer cried. “Lisa, wait. Let me talk to her for a minute.” I can’t remember the customer’s face. I was too busy trying not to lose my nerve.

“No waiting,” I said. “Cut.”

“You’ll be sorry,” he said.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “Cut.”

The customer stared in disbelief as Lisa cut my hair down to two inches. By the time she pulled out the clippers to taper the hair at the nape of my neck, he decided that he couldn’t take anymore. He declared me a fool and left the salon.

When Lisa turned the styling chair around to show me my reflection that day, there were no regrets. I was introduced to the real me.

I’ve toyed with growing my hair out from time to time, but the result was always the same. I would cut it before it grew to my ears. This past year, however, my hair made it to my chin. Lisa styled it into smooth bob. It reminded me of Dorothy Hamill.

There were things about longer hair that I had forgotten. For one, it sheds. A lot. I had to clean the sink out every morning after combing my hair. And the bathroom floor was a mess. I later remembered that my college roommate and I had to sweep our dorm room every week because our hair shed so much.

Another thing that I had forgotten was how ridiculous long hair looks when it needs professional attention. Last week, my hair appointment was two weeks overdue. I felt like a wolf. No matter how much I brushed my hair or tried to tie it down with a scarf, it would look puffy. I felt as if I had stuck my hand on that static electricity ball at the Magic House.

The final straw was last Wednesday. A coworker came into my office to discuss a project. “Are you growing your hair out?” he asked. I nodded weakly. “It looks nice.”

I know that he was being kind, but I didn’t want compliments on something that I didn’t even like. As soon as he walked out of my office, I picked up the phone and made a hair appointment.

I walked into the salon Saturday morning. Lisa was a few minutes late. “How short do you want it?” she asked as she pulled out her supplies. “I want to lose at least half of this,” I said.

A few hours later, Lisa turned her chair around to show me my reflection. Two-thirds of my hair was on the floor, “Welcome back,” I said.

The past few days have been a lot easier. I haven’t had to clean the sink or sweep the bathroom floor. And I am still getting compliments.

“You cut your hair!” a co-worker said. “It’s awesome.”

“Thanks” I said.

“I know you were growing your hair out, but it really didn’t seem like you,” she said. “I like this a lot better.”

“Me, too,” I said.

Cinderella. Snow White. Rapunzel. The Princess with the pea. These women managed to beat the odds and bagged the perfect husband in the process.

Or as far as I know, they did. When I was a kid, I read and reread their popular sagas of romance and rescue. But the stories didn’t give too much detail past the rescue stage. The rest of their lives was summed up in a single phrase: “and they all lived happily ever after.”

As a modern day princess with her own prince charming, I am working on my happily ever after. Mike and I met four years ago at a family barbecue; his aunt is a friend of my mom’s. He is a sweet, patient man who was willing to woo a woman whose past searches for a prince left her jaded. We’ve been living together for the past year and a half, and we have been blessed with a daughter.

Did the princesses truly have a happily ever after? Dealing with the everyday challenges of a relationship is much harder than it seems in that simple phrase crafted by the brothers Grimm. Mike and I have had several instances that I call growing experiences; these are the times when we have to find a way to merge our expectations with actualities. Here are just a few examples of what I mean.

What’s that on the floor?
I am a neat freak, and Mike is not. It annoys me to no end. There was a period of time when I found dirty socks all over the place. I fussed. I stomped. The socks disappeared and were replaced with dirty dishes and empty take-out cups. My prince is patient with my annoyance as he relocates and redefines his clutter in various parts of our home.

How would have Rapunzel handled this? Would the disorder be lost in her long locks, or would the witch who imprisoned the princess make a comeback as a clutter specialist? She would use her magic wand to clean house.

Are we alone?
I work days, and Mike works nights. Toss an active toddler into those hectic schedules, and couple time is nearly extinct. We are still struggling for a solution. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve fallen asleep while he was talking or mumbled my apologies as he tried to slip over to my side of the bed.

What did Snow White do about this? Did her prince keep a mental clipboard that kept track of her “I’m too tireds” or “I have a headaches?” (By the way, I have never used that as an excuse.) Or did taking care of seven dwarfs provide valuable insights into time management? Perhaps focusing on one relationship is a breeze after keeping house for seven men.

Where’s my hero?
A male friend of mine once said that every man sends a “representative” out on dates during the first few months of dating. It take at least four to six months, he says, for the real person to show up.

If that is the case, did the fairy tale ladies really know who they were marrying? Those chicks fell head over heels at first sight. The longest premarital relationship was Cinderella’s, I think. At least she took a few turns with him on the dance floor before he put out an A.P.B for her feet. Saving the day after the first or second meeting sets a pretty high bar; I wonder if the men could continue to meet expectations.

Mike’s representative made a strong showing with flowers and love notes for about a year. A string of gift-giving mishaps have created a dry spell. Backordered items, lost greeting cards, and calendar mix-ups are just a few examples of the romantic boo-boos I have seen lately.

About a month ago, the main pipe in the house clogged, and smelly water poured into the basement. Mike rented a giant contraption from the local hardware store and spent the day flushing the line. After eight hours of banging and cussing, he emerged from the basement stinky, tired, and victorious. I kissed my prince as he headed to the shower. I offered him a backrub, but he was too tired to accept it. Romance may be hit or miss, but I definitely had a hero.

As Mike snored heavily that night, I thought again about the princesses and their fairy tales. I’ll never know if they really had a happily ever after, but I do know they had an amazing journey trying to get there. And the journey is half the fun.