Well, I did it.
And I went out to the car and cried. And I said bad words. Lots of them.
And I came home and stuck my head under the faucet. And I messed with it and messed with it.
I resisted the urge to take a pair of scissors to it myself, and now an hour later, I’m almost past the suicidal phase. A little dramatic? You betcha.
What is it about hair? Seriously, is it THAT big of a deal?
So. Let’s start at the beginning.
As you’ll remember, I rarely like my haircuts, but for some reason, I thought this would be different. I went armed with a photo, rather than trying to describe what I wanted, which is huge for me. I KNEW that haircuts really depend on hair texture and thickness and body, so I asked her based on MY hair, would this be a good cut for me, and she said “yes, but we’ll probably start a little longer and see what you think. We can always make it shorter.” I was adamant that what I wanted was a messy look, not perfect. And something a little trendy, not an old lady cut. And not fluffy. I HATE old, and I HATE fluffy!
So, I’m in the chair, really chill. Not at all jacked up, or even apprehensive.
She starts whacking away, and I’m fine seeing all the hair coming off. And man, did she cut. Even though my hair is thinning over what it was in my younger years, I still have a LOT of hair.
I’m noticing it’s shorter than we discussed, but I’m still okay. Messy was my first priority, not length.
Then she starts blowing it dry, and I’m getting nervous. It’s beginning to fluff. And I’m not seeing any hint of messiness.
By the time she was done, it looked like I was wearing a football helmet. All smooth and round. The hysteria was building up in my chest, and I was trying not to let it show. Another stylist walked by and said, “oh that’s cute, it suits you.” I wanted to punch her in the face. It was the old lady cut I did NOT want. And she was saying it suited me.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and barely made it to the car before I burst into tears.
I called Mr. Tattered to let him know I was not a happy camper, and he had me face time him to see how bad it was. He said all the supportive, loving things you’d want your partner to say, and didn’t laugh at my distress, but it didn’t help. I was pretty much beside myself.
Once I calmed down, I drove home and immediately stuck my head under the faucet and started from scratch. I don’t need my hair blown dry, so I just toweled it dry, then started shaping it with my fingers and a little sculpting stuff, scrunching it up here and there.
Before long, it was looking less awful. It’s not what I wanted, but it may be okay. Like I said, I have a bad hair life, why would that change at this late date?
3 of the four grandkids like it, Lulu’s preschool teacher said it was sassy and made me look 20 years younger, and of course the daughter and DIL were supportive. The son said it was better in person than the photo his wife sent him.
And after half a day, I’m accepting it. I don’t think it’s a bad cut, I just need to figure out how to style it better.
It’s only hair, for God’s sake.
What? You want to see the photo? …..Um. No. I’m not there yet.