Sunday, November 27, 2016

8 Inches

I am not one for crazy hairstyles.  Actually, no.  I should rephrase. I love offbeat, unique hairstyles, but I have neither the skill nor the patience to carry it off.

Working in a corporate environment, there is a huge amount of leeway, especially when it comes to color.  Honestly I would love to have lilac unicorn hair, but it really wouldn't fit in with where I work.

I had really long hair before Brad and I got married.  Kept it long so that I could have an elaborate updo.  After the wedding, I chopped it off.  But I had a stylist dip dye my hair rainbow colors.  It was glorious.  It's a beautiful thing when your outside matches your inside.

Currently, I have been rocking some beyond mundane nut brown Rapunzel locks.  Since I blow dry my hair everyday, the ends were totally fried.  It was a sh*t show.

I kept meaning to make an appointment to get it cut, but something always came up and forced me to either cancel the appointment or not make one at all.

Finally I was able to carve out some time on Saturday to go.  I figured it would be a surprise for Brad to come to my hair being so short.  I went to the salon and was greeted by a lovely chipper young woman.

Despite the fact that I love to talk, I really hate small talk.  It is just so superficial and blah.  Hairstylist/client chat (unless you have been going to the same person forever) is the pinnacle of small talk.

Generally speaking I hate lulls in the conversation.  They are really awkward. I tend to fill the void with random nattering, not my best quality.  But in a salon chair, I got nothing and sit there in stony silence.

This also comes back to bite me when they ask if I like it.  I can never seem to spit out the words if I genuinely don't.  You know what would be fun though?  To make up a completely different identity.  For that 30 minutes in the chair, be a pediatrician, a firefighter, an author... the sky is the limit.  A little 30 minute fantasy.

Fantasy or note, bottom line is that I did a big chop.  8 inches.  It really doesn't matter what medium you are working in, 8 inches is significant (*wink*).

When a woman gets a haircut, you want someone to notice.  Yes, yes of course, we got the haircut for ourselves and we don't need anyone else's approval....blah blah blah.  We want someone to notice.

Yeah, well, no one did.  I am not sure what is more horrifying, the fact that no one noticed or the idea that no one mentioned it because it was bad.  Either way... confidence is in the sh*tter at this point.

My two best friends noticed, so there is that I suppose. I guess I would have thought that big of a cut would warrant at least a comment or two, but nothing. Nada.

Meh. Whatever.

What is more tragic however is the fact that I have had to send my hairdryer into that salon in the sky.   It took me a good couple days to finally admit that it had died.  I kept trying to convince myself that if I held it a certain way, or twisted the cord just right it would work.  Nope.

So now I have been relinquished to my emergency hairdryer.  A dusty old relic whose role purpose is to fill in when the soldiers on the front line are out.    This thing, while filling a crucial purpose has all of the dryer power of someone trying to cool off a hot bite of lasagna.  Pitiful.

My new haircut, which has the potential to look really good, now looks brutal because I am dealing with inferior equipment.  Since it is so close to Christmas I refuse to buy myself one and instead have done the practical thing and added it to my list.  Fingers crossed it shows up under the tree or I will be first in line on Boxing day.


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