Hair is tricky business.
(Okay, maybe not so much if you're a guy. Most of the guys I know don't care about their hair until it starts to disappear. THEN it becomes an issue.)
For me -- perhaps, for lots of women -- the relationship with my hairdresser is sort of like my relationship with a doctor (to be honest, a therapist). It doesn't happen overnight. You require chemistry, a like-mindedness, open communication. It's like dating. Only more difficult, because while trusting your heart with someone is risky business, your heart is internal. Your hair is part of how you present yourself to the world. If someone you are dating messes up, your heart might be bruised, but you can still look freaking fabulous. If your hairdresser messes up, you need a wig. Or a hat. Or some kind of creatively invented illness that prevents you from leaving the house until it grows out and you feel like you can show your head in public again.
When I lived in North Carolina I had a wonderful, fabulous hairdresser (shout out to you, Cortney!). She got me. She got my hair. I never left her chair feeling anything less than amazing and cute as all hell.
I have not yet discovered that in New Hampshire. Happy as I am to be back in New England, I wish I could have brought her with me (or that I could afford to fly to NC every 5 weeks or so and have her cut my hair. She's THAT good) but alas, she likes living in North Carolina and none of my most persuasive begging could change her mind (and trust me, I tried).
So for a while, I simply didn't get my hair cut. Until it was sort of a shaggy, hot mess. Then I sucked it up and ...
...well, I went to the mall and wandered into a salon. And got my hair cut by a perfectly nice girl who did a perfectly adequate job.
So I went back. Second haircut? Also fine.
Then I decided I wanted to have short hair.
That's sort of when everything went to hell.
When I was a teacher, I used to carefully craft directions for my students. I would have them in written form, I would deliver them verbally, and I would usually have some sort of visual representation of what my students needed to do. After the first not-quite-right haircut, I tried that with Nice Hair Lady. I brought photos. My best friend helped me to describe what I wanted. We did visuals (pulling the hair back with my hands to demonstrate). This, I thought, would go really well.
It ... didn't.
I mean, it looked okay when I left the salon, all styled and product-y and cute. It was mostly right, I thought. Good deal.
Then I went home. And I slept on it, and I looked in the mirror when I got up. And thought: Oh, no. No no no no no.
Okay, I thought. Don't panic. I'll just wash it.
Washed. Looked again. Still ... no. Just ... no.
Okay, I thought. Continue with the not panicking. Let's see how it looks when it dries.
It looked worse dry.
I don't know how to describe what was wrong with it, except to say that it looked unfinished. It was shorter than I wanted it in the front, but not short enough to be workable. It was just ...
... it was terrible. Can I say that? It was TERRIBLE.
I work from home and my hair, as such, is sort of irrelevant. And it was STILL too awful for me to live with.
So I did something I normally wouldn't do, something that made me feel like I might need to throw up and/or pass out.
(Cortney, if you're reading this? You might want to stop reading RIGHT NOW.)
I got the scissors. And began snipping.
Here's what I learned:
1) there's a reason for the cape. I had hair ALL OVER ME. Itchy, short hair spikies. Not enjoyable.
2) I am SO not a trained hair professional. In any way.
3) I needed to call Cortney and make an appointment for when I am in NC on vacation so she can fix this.
To be fair to me, it does look better. I got some compliments on it when I ventured outside. However, I also know that sometimes people tell you that something looks good when it's a dramatic, obvious change and they know that they should say something but they're not sure what to say. Often that comes out as "That's cute" when I'm pretty sure they're thinking "Oh dear GOD what was she thinking."
You know what I was thinking? I was thinking: My bathroom is full of hair. And so is this shirt. And possibly my bra. When I look in the mirror I fail to recognize the short haired person in it. So please, PLEASE, tell me it looks good. I'll give you one of my kidneys.
This morning? I noticed some pieces that I'd missed.
Will it ever end?