The holidays are a stressful time for everybody. People eat horribly, drive horribly and just have general lapses in judgment. Wear that holiday sweater? Why not? Make out with the annoying co-worker at the Christmas party? What’s the harm? Attach sparklers to your eyeglasses and light them at midnight on New Year’s Eve? Who’s gonna stop you? Get your hair cut into a mullet-Rick-James-Jheri-Curl hybrid? Meh, maybe we should think twice about that one.
But think twice I did not.
It all started innocently enough, much like all horrible ideas. It was December 23rd and my hair was a mess. I hadn’t had a haircut in 10 months and it was long (think mid-back or so) and unruly (think Midwest-1986 or so). I was out running errands and stopped into Starbucks for a latte. I asked the barista if she knew of any salons in the area that might accept a walk-in for a trim. What luck! Not only did she know of the place but it was two doors down and she had given up her beloved hairdresser of 10 years for their $15 cuts. Go!, she said. You won’t regret it!, she said.
Well, the bitch lied. I regret it like I regret the evening in 1994 when I saw Reality Bites and decided to give myself the short-bangs-long-hair look. Except that I have a cowlick and the bangs just got more and more uneven and I just kept cutting more and more and before I knew it, I had left Reality Bites in the dust and headed straight for the scene from Pink Floyd: The Wall where Bob Geldof is cutting and shaving and shaving and cutting. Not cute. Not pretty.
I walked into the hair place, got onto the list and then sat down to wait my turn. I was the only woman in the waiting area (RED FLAG! RUN!). When my name was called I asked the girl for a trim. I said that I wanted 2-inches off and that I wanted the layers to remain long. She cut the two inches and then a couple inches more and then another inch for good measure and then she took out a razor and started hacking away at my hair as though it were an intruder who had startled her while she was in the midst of a huge crafting project. While I am normally fairly assertive in my life, something about the salon chair makes me clam up. Is it the backwards, nylon Zorro cape? Is it the florescent lighting? Is it the person with the sharp instrument mere inches from my throat? Who knows. What I do know is that my hair is wavy and, in some parts, curly. As I continued my errands and the hair dried (What, you think they include a blow-dry in a $15 cut?) the true nature of the hack job was revealed. Curly ball of poof with a pin-straight rat tail in the back. Upon returning home, I said to my husband, “Basically I have a curly mullet.” His reply? “(long pause) Well, I like mullets.” Husband Fail Alert.
So let this be a lesson to you. If you are walking into a salon with the attitude of How Bad Can They Fuck It Up?, keep on walking. Run if you must. Grab a pair of shears, wave them around menacingly and back out slowly if that is what it takes. But don’t sit down and don’t let them snip even one hair. For now I am wearing hats but this can’t last for long. What will I do when winter turns to spring? What then? Dear God, what then?!