February 15, 2007
Why I Hate To Get My Hair Cut
Really what I want is the flamboyant male hairdresser whose main goal in life is to Bring Out The Fabulous In All Of Us. That's what I want. I had that years ago. He was a bit lazy, though. And moody, sometimes doing my hair with only half a heart. So my search for Mr. Right (well, I found the Husband Mr. Right... I just need the hairdresser Mr. Right) continues.
I don't "do" haircuts very often. I hate having my hair cut because it is so rare that the results are pleasing. I have hair that doesn't like to be tamed. A mixture of Af-American and Italian I have a wildly thick and curly head of hair. Yes, I've had it relaxed. For years. Eight years ago when I was pregnant with the twins I decided I didn't hardly have the time to change my clothes, let alone relax my hair. So I stopped cold turkey and let grow out. I had been at least a decade since I had a natural head of hair.
I my last cut was a little over a year ago. One of my girlfriends loved it, raved about it and as of recent began to remind me how nice it lookedwaaaaay back when I cut it. It took me a couple months, but today I called up and made an appointment.
Me: I need to get my hair cut. It doesn't have to be with the lady from before.
She tells me how much it will be and I make an executive decision to go through with it. I had 1 hour to make it to there.
The Master looked like any other stylist. I don't know if I expected her shears and supplies to be holstered to her belt with a spotlight for a backdrop, or what. But the moment she took my hair in her hands I knew. She ain't never touched hair like mine before.
Here I had hoped someone with her credentials had at least done some relaxers, cut some kinky curls. Um... no. I think she was intimidated by The Hair. She took very little off and didn't hold it with authority, spank it, tell it who the boss was. I told her how I styled it (combed it in the shower with conditioner and then DID NOT TOUCH IT WITH A COMB, BRUSH OR HAND after). Instead she combed it with a fine-tooth comb, put some product that she'd "been meaning to try but didn't know who to try it with" on, stuck me under a dryer (I told her I don't do dryers) and then sent me on my very frizzy, highly afro-ish merry way.
Me, being naively hopeful that it would look better once I got home to wash and style myself (and being a wussy who just didn't want confrontation at that point), thanked her, tipped her, went to my car, put my hair back, came home and called my girlfriend (since it was all her fault anyway).
I know I have a wicked head of hair. I know that I have yet to walk in a salon and be able to walk out with my hair "done" (have to come home, wet it down and style it so I don't look like an electrocuted pom-pon). But come on, now. I looked straight out of the '80s. I'm really don't want to have to go back. But as my hair dries into a highly uneven, misshapen mass, I'm guessing I will.
Here's a little peek at what we're working with. This is Before Massacre.