As I write this, it’s Tuesday on my lunch hour and I am looking ahead to this evening with both fear and dread at the quarterly ritual I call “the hair appointment.” Now, when I was a kid, every single Saturday my mom would go to the “beauty shop” (where, as near as I could tell, one didn’t actually shop for beauty). On infrequent occasions–since it usually involved tantrums and was more trouble than it was worth–I would be forced to go as well. Which is why I had the sprayed-stiff beehive of a 60-year-old woman in all the photos at my brother’s wedding. I was 13, by the way, so this was Not Beauty.
Now, those repositories of hell serve both men and women and are called “hair salons,” so they at least aren’t claiming to sell beauty anymore, which is a good thing because, in my experience, the whole thing is a crapshoot.
I’ve moved around a lot and, inevitably when one moves to a new city, one has to face the challenge of Finding a Hair Stylist. If one has Difficult Hair, the challenge is akin to fending off a hungry black bear at a picnic.
I have Difficult Hair.
It won’t curl, for one thing. It’s straight as a board, and very, very fine. It’s also thick, which sounds like a contradiction with “fine,” but the individual strands are soft and fine…there’s just a lot of of them. Did I mention it wouldn’t curl? It hangs. Which is great if one wants the 1960s hippie look but that’s a tough look to pull off if one is older than, say, twenty.
Once, before a black-tie event I was going to, I went to a new stylist and made the mistake of saying I wanted it trimmed a little shorter on the sides than on the back, which the stylist interpreted as “this woman wants a mullet.” I did not want a mullet. However, I went to my black-tie event wearing one. OMG, the humiliation.
Then there was the Little Dutch Boy episode, where I swear the stylist might as well have covered my head with a bowl and trimmed around the edges. It was hideous.
There was an episode with an attempt at some “Friends”-era Jennifer Anniston thing I can’t even bring myself to talk about except to say that the evening ended with me in my bathroom at midnight, wielding a pair of scissors in front of the mirror.
Tonight’s biggest danger is my state of mind. Still railing against a new dress code among whose many forbidden things is “hair of an unnatural color,” I am considering blue.
I ended up having to reschedule this post from Wednesday to Friday, so I can report that…eh…I haven’t decided yet. It isn’t an atrocity but until I redo it the way I really want it, I won’t know for sure. (Of course, one must immediately come home from the salon and redo one’s hair–everyone knows that!)
To be entered for a $5 Amazon GC (or Book Depo equivalent), what’s your worst haircut horror story? I’m in a day-job meeting for a solid eight hours today, so I’ll try to respond to comments this evening or midday if I get a break!