A trim too far.

September 3, 1939

Dear Diary,

Today has been an insult from beginning to end, and I am very pleased that as soon as I have finished my entry within your pages, it will be over. It is seldom in life that you have a day as bad as mine and the need to document it is the sole reason I have not chosen to skip this entry and find my bed to end this day all the sooner. 

The realization that my wedding was in twelve days set me catapulting into my day abuzz with excitement. Apparently catapulting with a bit too much vigor, as I managed to knock my eye-glasses off my nightstand and promptly snapped them in half under my heel while attempting to find them. My mood remained un-dampened, and wished for it to stay that way. As such, and seeing as the newspaper somewhat depressing of late, I left it sitting on the hallway table, unread.

I had several errands to run, such as doing the final fitting for my dress, visiting my mother, going to the salon, and several other chores of minimal importance and that would be a waste of ink. Number one on the list was the fitting, I’ve been attempting to slim my waist for the dress to be more flattering, or at the very least maintain the same dimensions of my last visit. Despite the dessert I had last night, I believed I had attained my goal. My dress and the seamstress however, seemed to disagree. 

Poor Mrs. Arnell, the kind woman at the shop who was tasked with helping me put on the dress, did struggle so! Even to the point of contorting me into the most uncomfortable positions to do up the back. Her efforts, however, were fruitless, and though I do not consider myself a vain woman, it did hurt my pride to see the dress stretched and bulging in all the wrong places on my body. Though she was kind, I could not help but feel somewhat ashamed as she passed the dress into the back of the shop to be let out by her assistants. She had asked when my wedding was to see if there was any hope of shedding the weight, when I told her twelve days, the hope on her face melted into pity, and with eyes blurring with unshed tears I stoically made my exit as soon as possible for my next appointment.

On my way to my Mother’s home, it felt as though my bridal joy had been stolen from me by pudding, and I hoped some tea at my Mother’s would rejuvenate me. As if the heavens had heard my hope mounting and laughed, insult was added to my injured pride. I knew that if I chose to take a taxi to my destination, I would not be able to afford the salon’s services later in the day. Since yesterday's heavy downpour had left the sky clear, I decided a brisk walk would do me and my waistline well. 

Oh, how the heavens had their laughs today! The puddles along the street proved no struggle to avoid, but the number nineteen bus did not have similar concerns. In circumventing a sign warning of some illegible hazard that I could not see due to the lack of my aforementioned eyeglasses, I inadvertently stepped close to the curb at the same moment as the bus had an unfortunate meeting with a lagoon-like puddle. The resulting tidal wave left me sodden and sputtering. To make matters worse, in the shock of the first wave of water, I did not see the taxi behind the bus and was drenched anew!

How Mother laughed and laughed when she opened the door to find me dripping on the front step. After tea, she offered me the use of my father’s car to get to the salon. Of course, the car had a flat, which furthered my certainty that today I was the god’s plaything, and due to my belief that I would be driving to the salon, I had nowhere near the appropriate amount of time to get to my appointment. The only course of action was to run. I didn’t dare take off my shoes for fear of ruining my stockings, and my feet are still now aching from the blisters given to me by my walking shoes.

By some miracle or perhaps by my own fleet-footedness, I made it to the salon on time, barely, but I did make it. I do fear that I may never return to that salon again though. Surely my name must be accompanied by a footnote in their ledger that reads something of this sort:

“Arrived in quite a state, barely on time, covered in mud and slightly damp. It would be best, if possible to avoid servicing her.”

Nevertheless, I chose to think of my dearest fiance Peter and ignore the judgemental stares from the women in the chairs. I needed a haircut, and there was simply no avoiding it. What was once a fashionable bob had grown out to the ungainly length which is flattering to no-one. 

I was swiftly seated in one of the chairs where hair is washed, as mine was deemed too dirty after my encounter with a flying puddle. The woman briskly washed my hair and made pleasant conversation, congratulating me on the decision to not cut my hair the day before my wedding as so many women do. I was poor company indeed, but I still felt the judgmental stares from the women around me, and could hardly find it in myself to smile and nod.

She moved me to sit in front of a mirror, and began the trim which was so desperately needed, cutting close to my chin and manipulating my head to ensure even-ness. As she reached the back of my head with the scissors I began to feel somewhat better, amazing what a good trim does for you. 

A commotion at the front door snagged my attention; much to my shock, my fiance had burst into the shop, at high speeds and making much noise, startling everyone. I felt the stylist jump behind me, but paid it no mind and instead rose to greet my overly animated fiance. 

With much gesticulation, he informed me of something to this effect, (though my memory is not clear enough to remember each word, I will give a summary): The political tensions have boiled over resulting in a declaration of war, and it was reported in all the papers. As soon as he heard, Peter had tried to reach me and only my mother’s aid had led him to find me now. Peter had had his commission reactivated and been promoted as well due to his fathers’ 

importance in the war office! He’s being sent off for re-training in 6 days, and he didn’t think we would be able to rearrange our whole wedding on such short notice.

It was at roughly this point where he trailed off and stared into the mirror behind me. My mind was reeling to the point of stupidity, and it took me a few moments to notice his diverted attention. I turned to see looks of shock on all faces, far greater than a rearranged wedding would warrant. My stylist offered me only four words: “I am so sorry.” and passed me a hand mirror. My hand flew to the back of my head as I remembered her fright at Peter’s entrance. My fingers met over-shortened hair and I raised the mirror behind my head. 

The sight that greeted my eyes was a diagonal slash through my hair, starting at the nape of my neck and stretching to near my left ear. I couldn’t take it any longer. 

I burst into tears.

Dear Diary, still now my eyes burn from the tears I shed in the salon, and I can bear writing no more. I will go to greet my bed now, and perhaps tomorrow will not be so rotten. Do excuse the smudges in the ink, I’m afraid the tears have begun anew.