Saturday, June 9, 2012

Nothing is certain but death and taxes.

And you most definitely cannot ever be certain of getting a good haircut. Observe:

Nothing is sure but death and taxes.

It looks passable now that I've fixed it a little, but it a) doesn't look quite like that style should look, b) looks almost, but not quite, entirely unlike what I wanted, and c) looks nothing like the picture I brought in.

I cried. There is no point pretending like I'm not that girl. Usually, I give myself a week before deciding how terrible a haircut really is, but this was just horrible. Here is how it began:

I arrived at the salon on time for my appointment, which had already been pushed back half an hour due to a previous customer whose appointment ran long. Instead of having to wait an extra half hour (which worked out for me), I ended up waiting more like a full hour before said customer was finally finished.

The owner asked another stylist to please get me started by washing my hair. She gave me a really nice scalp massage that I normally don't receive from my usual guy. (For some reason, I expect guys to give better haircuts than women. Yeah, I know.) My hair was looking pretty good after that, I noticed.

After the blonde with long hair left and the remnants of her scalp were swept off the chair, I sat down and showed him a picture of my desired cut. It was shorter than I have ever gotten before, but he gave me a great haircut last visit so I wasn't worried. He pointed a little less than halfway down my neck and said, "According to the picture, this is how short it will be. Is that okay?" Yes, it was.

Only, when you cut wet hair you have to account for the fact that it shrinks as it dries. Right? Even I knew that. Strike one.

Instead of cutting the blunt layer, then a top layer a 1/2 inch or so shorter, texturing the ends to lie softly, he ended up cutting and texturing graduated layers so my hair would round itself, like so. Big strike two.

By this point, I just wanted to jump out of the chair, but found myself paralyzed and gazing into the mirror in a frozen state of panic. You'd think that would be the end, but it gets worse. He was styling it so that my hair would poof out instead of lying flat like the picture I showed him (think soccer mom bob). When I kindly asked him why my hair poofed out like that, he said, "Oh, that's kind of what I do!" I just didn't know how to respond to that. You'd have thought he hated me. Yes, I tip well. I even praised the guy on Yelp. STRIKE THREE.

Yet, I still tipped him. Our final conversation went something like this:

Him: "Do you like it?"

Me: "Uh huh-sure-great-here's your tip-no, I'll call-gotta go!"

I'm amazed I didn't cry in the car. Somehow, I managed to save my tears for when I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror.

Finally, we get to my hair in the first picture. I parted my hair deeply off to the side and smoothed it out with the flat iron I thought I broke because I had smacked it against the counter a few hours earlier in rage. (I never do that.) I kind of have a butchered Katie Holmes 'do now (in fact, if you Google image search "soccer mom bob", a picture of Katie Holmes' famous bob, and the ex wife of Jim Carrey, is one of first images) only not as intentional and, I repeat, not at all what I wanted. It needs to be fixed but I don't want to go back to this place ever again, and I'm too cheap to pay for another haircut so soon.

Such is my life.

ETA - Now that I'm a little less hysterical, I realize I'm making a much bigger deal out of this than the situation warrants. It's less about the hair and more about the lack of control. I actually think the style looks kind of cute in a 20s bob way, though I can still see faults with the shape. Who knows, I might even keep it this way if I don't like how it grows out.

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