Wanted: One good wig. Or hitman to rough up hairdresser. Or both.
I needed a haircut. Badly. I pretty much had not had a haircut since the spring and it’s been a long summer of swimming and outdoor play. The ends of my hair were like straw.
So I started looking around at hairstyles and decided I was going to get an
Shorter in the back – longer in the front. I was a bit nervous about this, because my 20-year high school reunion (ACK!) is about 3 months away and I didn’t want too drastic of a change. So I figure if I keep the ends to about collarbone length in the front, I can always grow it out by the reunion in November.
I walk into my hair salon and sitting at the reception desk is a young woman with exactly the haircut I am coveting. It’s about mid-neck in the back and sweeps down to grace her shoulders in the front. It’s adorable.
My hairdresser calls me back to his chair and I tell him what I want. He is nodding along in agreement.
“Actually,” I say, “the woman at the front desk? That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Oh!” he says. “I just cut her hair two days ago. No problem.”
So I am thinking, “WOW! Excellent. He knows exactly what to do. I mean, afterall, he just did this exact cut TWO DAYS AGO. And there is a real-life model a mere 15 feet away from us.”
I get washed and return to his chair and he again confirms, mid-neck in the back, just past shoulders in the front.
“Sounds great,” I say.
And he starts to cut. And cut. And cut. And by the time he makes his way to the front of my hair, I realize that the ends in the front are just barely chin length. Barely. If I pull on them a little.
It is about this time, he realizes his mistake.
“Is the length OK in the front?” he asks.
"Hmmm. Let me see. Considering that it’s a full TWO INCHES above what we discussed, what do you think, fuckwit?!? Now start gluing all those individual hairs back onto my head, tootsweet. I don’t have all fucking day."
OK, I didn’t say that. I believe it’s in my best interest not to piss off anyone holding scissors inches from my head. And besides, what’s the point? What’s done is done. At this point, the only choice you really have to is make the best of it.
So yeah. My hairdresser somehow fucked up a haircut he himself performed on another woman—a woman who was seated only a few feet away—48 hours before. HOW???? DOES???? THIS??? HAPPEN???? TO??? ME????
This is especially upsetting because on my round pumpkin face this is just about theeeeee most unflattering length possible. It reminds of Sally Field’s “brown football helmet” hairstyle in Steel Magnolias. Not. Good.
OK. OK. I know. It’s only hair.
It will grow back.
Yes, there is at least a small chance that I’m overreacting to this. Wee. Minute. Teensy. I accept that. But come on? I don't think I know one person who does not have a "my hairdresser completely fucked up my hair" story. If one of my clients asked me for a newsletter and I delivered an intranet, I'd probably get in pretty big trouble here at work. Perhaps he was confused between "chin" and "shoulder?" Maybe next time I go I should bring a diagram of the human body? Sheesh.
And also, hello?? Twenty-year class reunion? Three months from now? People I haven’t see in two decades? Yes, vanity, thy name is Kimberly. I want to walk in there looking and feeling great. It all adds up to shit.
For the next 12 weeks, I’ll be taking lots of vitamins B and E and massaging my scalp and mediating to send energy to my hair in an effort to foster increased growth. Any other tips? Wigs? Extensions? I’m only partly joking here, people. If Britney can get away with it, so can I.
Looking really happy about my new haircut. NOT.
Does this look “shoulder length” to you? Maybe if I shrug my shoulders really high. Like to my ears. UGH.