When I was 16, we moved from New York to a very small town. Among the numerous ways this town was a bit behind-the-times—clothing styles that NY, would have been considered out-of-date, only one movie theater, no record store, etc.—it was also challenging to get the haircut you wanted. It seemed as if everyone had gone to beauty school during tutorials on how to give a pixie cut or Farrah Fawcett layers, but had then stopped. If you wanted something else, you were out of luck.

But I didn’t want a pixie cut or Farrah Fawcett layers. I wanted to look like Nancy Wilson from the rock band, Heart. I didn’t actually own an album of theirs so I had to borrow it from a friend. I made an appointment at Cut Loose Hair Salon and brought in the album cover. Pointing at Nancy I said, “This is what I want.” The stylist nodded—they always nodded, like they knew just what you wanted and were prepared to give it to you, and then you ended up with a pixie cut—and wrapped the salon cape around me.

It was impossible to tell during the cut whether I was getting what I’d asked for. If I got a pixie, it’d be months before I could grow it out long enough again. But then finally the stylist twirled the chair toward the mirror. I gasped. Nancy Wilson, eat your heart out.

[I’m currently in a short-term writing class where we often take ten minutes to write from a prompt. Yesterday’s invited us to write about a time when we got just what we wanted.]