I have hair issues. I freely admit it. As a surly teenager, I took every opportunity to hide behind it. I wish I had a nickel for every time my mother had to tell me, “Get your hair out of your face.” My father called me Cousin It.
I kept my hair long way past my prime. I was inching towards my mid 30′s before I finally decided I was too long in the tooth to be Rapunzel. Slowly but surely, by hair began inching its way up to my shoulders. And there it stayed, in the same boring style for many years.
When I had my CAbi makeover early last year, I trusted the French man in the beret to give me some layers. Layers were something I rarely entrusted to anyone. Because I have very very thick broom-like hair that takes on a whole zip code in humidity.
Layers are not your friend when you have hair like that.
But as it turned out, subtle layers were my friend and at last I had a haircut that made me feel CUTE. And really, at this stage of the game, cute is all I can hope for.
Alas my hair once more grew out, and I had not the resources to fly to Los Angeles to hunt down the French man in the beret.
I let my hair grow back out to my shoulders and had the layers cut blunt. Which works well when you rely on a pony tail holder as your only styling option.
Then earlier this year I attended a girl’s night out at a salon. The idea is to introduce a bunch of women to the stylists at a salon that is seeking to expand their business. Well, there was wine involved. Not that I drank any, but I did get into the spirit of the evening and allowed a stylist to cut my hair INTO LAYERS.
It was an even better cut THAN THE FRENCHMAN. My joy knew no bounds. At long last, I’d found someone who understood the complexities of my hair. The weird kinks and bends, the sheer volume, the propensity to pull a Rosanna Rosannadanna in the rain.
Months past, and I was greatly in need of a trim. I knew where to go. I went back to my new stylist and explained what she had done the first time. She nodded knowingly. Not too many layers, not too short.
As she cut, it did occur to me, this seems a wee bit shorter. But she had gotten me talking about homeschooling and sometimes I go off on a tangent. I wasn’t really looking at my hair. I was instead mesmerized by a little girl of about 9 strutting around the salon wearing stilettos while getting her hair died purple.
I glanced over at my own 10 year old sitting nearby, wearing shorts, t-shirt, long blonde pig tails, and sneakers. Happily playing Scrabble on my iPhone. I was grateful that I have a little girl who has no qualms about staying a little girl. For now.
My attention returned to my own mirror. I heard myself gasp, “Oh my, it is so short.” The stylist continued cutting more layers. I wanted to yell STOP, but was speechless. I’m not the type who confronts. I like to hope for the best. Certain that I would love my hair when I got it home and messed around with it for myself.
Didn’t happen. I now officially hate it. I know I should have said something, and really, I wish it was in my genetic makeup to speak up for myself. I have no problem speaking up when someone crosses my children, but I tend to remain silent when it comes to matters of me.
Why is that? Did I not want to hurt her feelings? I frustrate myself.
When I walked in the door, Fiddledaddy had the good sense to tell me I was cute. Jensen took one look at me and said, “Mommy, you don’t look familiar to me.”
I don’t look familiar to me either. I’ll post a picture when I get up the nerve. But likely there will have to be a cocktail involved. It will grow. And it’s probably not all that bad. And it’s only hair, for crying out loud. It’s not like I broke a femur.
I headed to the bathroom to see what I could do with it and as I looked out the window, I noticed that it was beginning to rain. I resigned myself to looking like a dandelion for the rest of the
hurricane season day.
If you’ve ever had a bad haircut, did you have the nerve to say anything at the salon?