Blogatron

Snip snip cringe

So once again the pendulum has swung back and I?ve remembered just why it is that I do things like cut my own bangs.

Yesterday, I went to get a haircut. I dislike getting a haircut, for a number of reasons, both economic and personal. First, there?s the finding a haircut place thing. I am a girl who likes a cheap haircut, and likes to know ahead of time just how cheap I can get it. Yes, I have even been known to choose my haircut place based on the cost, unbelievable though that may sound. All I?m saying is, you?re buying something, you need to know what you?re going to spend.

Well.

The receptionists at haircut places are, I?m convinced, specially trained in that overtly nice, yet utterly snobby and demoralizing tone that is designed to make a girl feel like she?s got a big social booger hanging out of her nose, if you will. Further, this secret haircut place receptionist training cabal has informed all of the haircut place receptionists that people who want to know how much a wash and cut costs are commie bastards, so I always get the snark treatment right from the beginning as I call around trying to find that haircut place that every neighborhood has where you can get ?WASH AND CUT $15 *blow dry extra *conditioner extra *manners extra *chair extra.?

Anyway. That ordeal over, there?s the going to get the haircut itself. The beginning is quite pleasant, because you get to sit in the front and look at fashion magazines while you wait, and sure, I don?t buy fashion magazines because they are evil and oppress women, but that doesn?t mean I?m above looking through a Vogue or a Cosmo now and again. There are principles, and then there is fun. A wise consumer knows the difference.

After waiting comes the shampoo. In theory, I should like having my hair washed. It sounds like it ought to be pleasant. However, I?ve learned that for some reason, most stylists seem to have a heavy hand with the scrubbing. I?ll take a nice scalp massage any day, but damned if it doesn?t usually feel like they are trying to remove most of your hair beforehand to save time. Plus there?s the always-too-hot water, and the inevitable soap splashing in the eye, and the me being too intimidated by all the girly beauty expert authority wielded by the hairstylist, so I never speak up about my wounds. Not fun, so much.

Hair washing over, the next hurdle is my feeble attempts to convey how I would like my hair to look, and boy, do I suck at this. First of all, I?m difficult. Not once in my entire life have I ever wanted my hair to look like a picture in a magazine or, God forbid, something out of one of those ghastly hairstyle sample books circa 1982 that they keep around on a bet to see if anyone will ever pick out one of those sad, sad, overprocessed ?dos. Nope, I always have a mental image of what I want. Fat lot of good that does me since I don?t know squat about hair lingo. I mean, I was 23 years old before I ever used a blow dryer, I?m a little slow with these things. So I?ll say something like, ?Um, I want you to cut it? With scissors? Sort of like this [vague gesture in the general direction of the nape of my neck] and then I want it to angle upward? But not too much, you know? And I want my bangs to be just like this, only I want to be able to see again.? And then the hairstylist will say, ?So, you want a Freudian bob with a 10% taper towards the equator with a shag there and a shiv here, and a bi-angled upthrust near the ears?? And I?ll say, ?Um, sure,? because huh?

Then the hairstylist will start cutting and I can choose from three options: 1) Look in the mirror, fascinated yet horrified by the peculiar effect on my appearance caused by the combination of fluorescent lighting, wet slicked-back hair, and a plastic tent which bisects my neck and gives me a false double chin and the impression that my half-neck connects directly to my plastic tent shoulders; 2) Make feeble attempts at small talk, at which I suck even more than hair talk; 3) Remain awkwardly silent and gaze into my lap, periodically looking up to give the hairstylist a weak and pallid smile to reassure her that I?m not a weirdo. Yeah. That?ll work. Occasionally the hairstylist might ask me how it looks, to which I always say fine because how the hell would I know, lady? Half my hair is piled on my head in clips and the other half is clinging wetly to my forehead and semi-neck.

So, we make it through the haircut somehow, and arrive at the part that I dread the most. The styling.

I am not a girl who styles overmuch. I eschewed hair products altogether for most of my life; even now I use just a bit of gel to keep my resemblance to a haystack down to a dull roar. I like the wild abandon that comes with knowing that at any moment I could run a comb through my hair. I?m just a bohemian, I guess.

Hairstylists, on the other hand, seem to see my head as a playground for styling potential, and they are willing to fight hard for the right to partake. One thing they like to do is encourage me to tease and fluff my hair to give it ?heighth.? I do not know what heighth is, but I suspect that it is a quality much revered if you are a cocktail waitress or a porn star*, and also that it requires mousse, so no thanks, and also, did they teach you a special handshake to go with that secret language? Because 90% of the hairstylists I?ve ever met have talked to me about my damn heighth, and I can?t say that I?ve seen the word elsewhere. There?s also the conversation about parting my hair on the side, which would apparently frame my face better. Well, my face ain?t a picture, my hairstyle ideal of the moment is Louise Brooks, and my hair is getting parted in the middle. No ? no mousse, thanks. No. I mean it. No, ?a little? is not what I meant. I meant none. Besides, I know what ?a little mousse? means to a woman who PERMS her BANGS, and it?s not pretty.

Yesterday, I didn?t get off so bad. I escaped with just some leave-in conditioner, and a fairly decent haircut, so all my torment and humiliation was not in vain. I?ll definitely go back there, six months from now when I get my next haircut.

*I think that cocktail waitresses and porn stars are fine people, and I respect their right to choose whatever profession suits their fancy. I?m just glad I don?t have a job that requires excessive grooming, is all I?m saying, because I, personally, would hate that.Back

Posted by hilatron at November 9, 2002 03:53 PM