Thursday, June 03, 2004
Nothing’s Fine, I’m Shorn
Well, the problem isn’t actually the cut, it’s the colour. I went into the salon expecting to get my hair cut, and to get some highlights. I expected to leave with brown hair that had some blonde in it; the situation is quite the opposite.
Cats and kittens, cuffs and collar are decidedly unmatched. For that matter, so are cuffs and eyebrows. I look ridiculous. I also look, as my oldest brother so kindly pointed out, like my mother. Now, since she doesn’t know where this website is, I’m not that worried about offending her, but if she does happen upon this: I’m not saying you are an unattractive woman, I’m saying that at the age of twenty-seven I don’t want to be mistaken for you.
This is an overreaction, obviously there are more pressing concerns in today’s world than what’s up with my coif, but at the moment I don’t care about any of them. I look funny, and I won’t cease looking funny for awhile. Damn them. I’m wishing itchy things on all of them.
The problem I have with salons is that I lose the ability to make any sort of choice, I always assume that they know what’s best for me in a way I never could. They ask me questions and it’s the nineteen fifties or something, “Oh, I can’t decide. What do you think?” They are the experts and I put myself in their capable hands; in much the same way I would expect to defer to a doctor in the event of surgery. That being said, after what happened to my head when I trusted these people I don’t think I want to take a chance with the doctors. Suppose they decide that my liver would look better if it was pinker? And then I die?!
I’ve been preconditioned to trust hairdressers; to look upon them as heroic. This all stems back to a memorable incident from my childhood. Who hasn’t had a rotten home haircut? Don’t’ worry if you haven’t, ‘cause I had your share, and your share, and probably his too. The most notable of which occurred the night before my grade five Xmas concert. My mother was going to give me a trim so that I would look “sharp” for my performance the next day. I should point out that she had given me many haircuts prior to this event and they were all fine. I should also point out that my mother has crazy-shaky hands, and is a little on the nervous and twitchy side. Yo, she was a powder keg with a smoldering fuse.
I could sort of hear her humming and hawing to herself while she cut my hair and tried to get it right. Finally she moved away from me saying “I’m scared to take any more off in case there’s nothing left.” Try to imagine how it felt to hear that phrase.
I looked in the mirror, determined – if not to be stoic – than to at least be brave, and saw what she had done to me. No word of a lie, I looked like Fred Flintstone. Screw stoic, I wailed.
She pursed her lips and said, “Oh, it’s not that bad.” I tried to pull myself together, but it just wasn’t happening. Forget about the humiliation of showing up at school like that, but to be on stage in front of God and everyone? The next morning I was kept home from school so that we could hide mommy’s nasty little secret. She took me to the local mall (everything was pretty local in this town, though), and presented me to the hair stylists. I like to imagine that their names were Sheena and Laverne.
No one else was in, so they could devote all of their heavily made-up attention to me. With narrowed eyes (admittedly, that could have been a symptom of too much mascara, or in-breeding) and planned their attack. They circled, touching my hair with yellowed fingers, and finally stepped aside to consult. Periodically they’d throw my mother a look that said more clearly than words that they wished home haircuts were punishable by law. They reminded me of temperamental artists, I half imagined that they would throw up their hands and wail “I simply can’t WORK under these conditions!” But evidently they decided their skills were equal to the task.
When they were finished I looked great, and the concert was saved for me. But, God, what a shit show to get there. I say now, although things will likely change by the time I get around to having kids, that I won’t put them through the same thing. Who are we kidding?
And so, clearly I’ve been preconditioned to see hair dressers as saviours, and to trust them implicitly. This willingness to trust blindly, and question nothing, has left me looking odd indeed. I need a tan, or something, to go along with this new look. One haircut shouldn’t have you seeking a whole new image. Well, unless you get a mohawk or something.
Well, the problem isn’t actually the cut, it’s the colour. I went into the salon expecting to get my hair cut, and to get some highlights. I expected to leave with brown hair that had some blonde in it; the situation is quite the opposite.
Cats and kittens, cuffs and collar are decidedly unmatched. For that matter, so are cuffs and eyebrows. I look ridiculous. I also look, as my oldest brother so kindly pointed out, like my mother. Now, since she doesn’t know where this website is, I’m not that worried about offending her, but if she does happen upon this: I’m not saying you are an unattractive woman, I’m saying that at the age of twenty-seven I don’t want to be mistaken for you.
This is an overreaction, obviously there are more pressing concerns in today’s world than what’s up with my coif, but at the moment I don’t care about any of them. I look funny, and I won’t cease looking funny for awhile. Damn them. I’m wishing itchy things on all of them.
The problem I have with salons is that I lose the ability to make any sort of choice, I always assume that they know what’s best for me in a way I never could. They ask me questions and it’s the nineteen fifties or something, “Oh, I can’t decide. What do you think?” They are the experts and I put myself in their capable hands; in much the same way I would expect to defer to a doctor in the event of surgery. That being said, after what happened to my head when I trusted these people I don’t think I want to take a chance with the doctors. Suppose they decide that my liver would look better if it was pinker? And then I die?!
I’ve been preconditioned to trust hairdressers; to look upon them as heroic. This all stems back to a memorable incident from my childhood. Who hasn’t had a rotten home haircut? Don’t’ worry if you haven’t, ‘cause I had your share, and your share, and probably his too. The most notable of which occurred the night before my grade five Xmas concert. My mother was going to give me a trim so that I would look “sharp” for my performance the next day. I should point out that she had given me many haircuts prior to this event and they were all fine. I should also point out that my mother has crazy-shaky hands, and is a little on the nervous and twitchy side. Yo, she was a powder keg with a smoldering fuse.
I could sort of hear her humming and hawing to herself while she cut my hair and tried to get it right. Finally she moved away from me saying “I’m scared to take any more off in case there’s nothing left.” Try to imagine how it felt to hear that phrase.
I looked in the mirror, determined – if not to be stoic – than to at least be brave, and saw what she had done to me. No word of a lie, I looked like Fred Flintstone. Screw stoic, I wailed.
She pursed her lips and said, “Oh, it’s not that bad.” I tried to pull myself together, but it just wasn’t happening. Forget about the humiliation of showing up at school like that, but to be on stage in front of God and everyone? The next morning I was kept home from school so that we could hide mommy’s nasty little secret. She took me to the local mall (everything was pretty local in this town, though), and presented me to the hair stylists. I like to imagine that their names were Sheena and Laverne.
No one else was in, so they could devote all of their heavily made-up attention to me. With narrowed eyes (admittedly, that could have been a symptom of too much mascara, or in-breeding) and planned their attack. They circled, touching my hair with yellowed fingers, and finally stepped aside to consult. Periodically they’d throw my mother a look that said more clearly than words that they wished home haircuts were punishable by law. They reminded me of temperamental artists, I half imagined that they would throw up their hands and wail “I simply can’t WORK under these conditions!” But evidently they decided their skills were equal to the task.
When they were finished I looked great, and the concert was saved for me. But, God, what a shit show to get there. I say now, although things will likely change by the time I get around to having kids, that I won’t put them through the same thing. Who are we kidding?
And so, clearly I’ve been preconditioned to see hair dressers as saviours, and to trust them implicitly. This willingness to trust blindly, and question nothing, has left me looking odd indeed. I need a tan, or something, to go along with this new look. One haircut shouldn’t have you seeking a whole new image. Well, unless you get a mohawk or something.
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