NPW Stardust

It seems like haircuts have been a popular topic 'round the blog block of late, and it's pretty easy to see why. I mean, a girl's hair is the source of her power. Good hair can be a valuable asset, bad hair is a girl's kryptonite. But rather than collect data from an informal blog survey on what my readers think, this time I decided to opt out of asking for advice from the internets- only because it seems like every time I ask for advice I just get even more worried and worked up. And then things turn out fine in the end and I realize I caused myself a good deal of anxiety over nothing. Well my friends, I know now that I should have reached out to you: I had the worst haircut of my life yesterday. No joke. I've been lamenting my poor chopped off hair for 24 hours and I think I've finally moved on from the denial phase to the anger phase.

When I called my regular Aveda salon yesterday afternoon there was no answer. No machine, no friendly receptionist, no little beep like they're on the other line, please try back. Nothing. I should've taken that as a sign. Life doesn't throw you unanswered telephone calls willy-nilly. Life was trying to tell me something. And being the impatient fool that I am, I didn't listen. Well, you know what they say about hindsight being all Lasik and I've learned my lesson. Still, that doesn't help my current situation.

After I didn't get any answer at my regular salon, I called the fall-back salon in the hopes they'd have an impromptu appointment available. I'd been there a couple of times and my memories of the place were hazy but not entirely bad. As luck had it, they did have an appointment available. At 3:30, I asked? Oh, whenever. "No worries, someone will be free when you show up," they trilled. They weren't kidding. There were at least 8 people having a food fight with pieces of lettuce and discussing all the times they caught their parents "doing it" when I showed up. My stylist came to scoop me up out of the mess of salad dressing smears and I noticed right away that I was scared of her hair. My gut was wrenching itself into a knot telling me to RUN! Run away! You do not want a hipster mullet! Get out now!

Then the second major sign that things were about to go horribly awry occured as I sat down in the stylist's chair and she popped the dreaded question: "So... what were you thinking for your hair?"

First off, I hate that question. For two reasons: 1. very rarely do I know what I want to "do" with my hair, and 2. even if I have some vague notion, I have no idea how to describe what I'm after. Apparently I never learned the crucial hair lingo required to survive a trip to the salon. I've always sheepishly depended on stylists to assess my hair and do their best with it. Hey, I never went to Blaine School of Hair Design. So I ventured a guess: "Oh, I was thinking some longer layers with longer, kind of side-swoopy bangs?" She wrinkled her nose in disgust (actually wrinkled it!) and exhaled loudly. "Long layers? Really? I'm not doing long layers. You need to take some of this hair off." This did not bode well with me, but I hadn't prepared myself to be ballsy enough to just stand up and walk out of there. Also, if I tried to escape I'm pretty sure this girl with her giant Elvis tattoos would have bitch slapped me back into the chair.

And then the slow torture began. Because once she started razoring the shit out of the sides, I knew it was all over. There's no salvaging the razored hair. I simply resigned myself to months and months of awkwardness, and promised myself some mini Cadbury eggs and a good cry when I got home.

At one point during the shearing I commented, "Umm, my hair looks like David Bowie." She kind of giggled and then said, "Wait, that's a good thing, right?"





Oh, you want to see a picture of the new 'do? Fine. Here you go:


When I got home and called Chris to cry about my hair he was only mildly sympathetic. He seemed to think I should have stopped her midway if I didn't like how she was cutting it. Like I have the power to stop someone holding scissors right up against my neck?

"Wait, so are you saying you think your hair looks like Ziggy Stardust David Bowie, or I'm Afraid of Americans David Bowie?"

"Does it matter?! You're supposed to tell me I'll look beautiful no matter what my hair looks like," I groaned.

"Oh, yeah. That."

"Mmm hmm. Too late now."

"What can I do to make you feel better? I'll do anything. You want me to smash every mirror in the house for you? Duct tape your eyes closed? I would do that for you."

I guess I deserve this for going to get my hair cut at a place named after a Hanna-Barbera cartoon.

Sigh.