I'd been a bit cranky for a few days, so I thought a nice trip to the salon to get my hair fixed up for the first day of work the next week was just the thing. I made an appointment, was all excited, but..
I arrived to find out that my stylist was no longer working there. She had been
I stood there in the doorway, indecisive. I didn't want to leave, and I was really looking forward to a haircut, so I settled for the other stylist. Someone who had given me a haircut that I wasn't entirely happy with before, but I had chalked that up to me possibly not communicating effectively. Sometimes I'm like that.
So this time I was crystal clear;
NO BOB. I don't want anything resembling a bob. I want long-ish layers, and lots of them, because I have this great natural wave that comes out when I scrunch my hair and it's layered.
Hear me? L-a-y-e-r-s. I also want to keep a lot of the length because it's longish, and I love that. Just cut off the real crispy, dry bits.
I took of my glasses, and she snipped, away, but as I squinted through the haze, I began to feel uneasy. This wasn't quite turning out how I thought it would. There didn't look like much in the way of layers. I pointed it out, and she snipped some more.
Maybe I'm just being picky. Or unreasonable.
I decided that perhaps I could live with it so I paid, went home, and was greeted with,
"What the heck happened to your hair? It's lopsided. There are pieces sticking out. It looks...weird."
This is hairstyle analysis from a 13 year old boy. Something is really, seriously, wrong.
I rushed into the bathroom and took a closer look. By god, the boy was right; some pieces were short, others long, there was some sort of choppy thing happening in places, and it just didn't look right. Almost like a short bob, on top of a long bob, with choppy bits in between. Did the woman forget her bifocals? Was she thinking I was a hedgehog in need of grooming? DID SHE USE KINDERGARTEN SCISSORS, FOR GOD'S SAKE?
The more I looked, the more horrified I became. Normally I would've sucked it up and just waited a month or so for a re-cut, but this? THIS? I didn't care what I had to pay or where I had to go because this was so not going to happen. I can't arrive at work on Tuesday, fresh to begin a new school year, with the worst haircut I've ever had. SO NOT going to happen.
I made an appointment for that afternoon with a different salon, then paced the house, snapped at Jake, angrily cleaned, complained on Twitter, and generally tried to keep myself busy.
Actually it wasn't just the sink, but the floor, counter, all the clean dishes in the drainboard, cupboards....to Jake's credit, he tried to clean it up. Then there was water all over the floor, counter, cupboards....I'm sure you can picture it.
And then minutes later, I discovered this:
Because they left me this delightful morsel in my comments at my Everythingmom blog.
Throwing my "not calling out companies" policy to the wind, I completely called them out and then in a fit of rage, fired off really snarky e-mail that may have contained some swearing, basically telling them to go do unimaginable things to themselves and leave me the hell alone.
Then I realized that I had just given spammers my e-mail address by doing so. Ya. I'm so smart like that.
By the time I actually stepped into salon #2, I was ready to shoot lasers from my eyes and fry anyone in sight. The hair cut was bad enough, but the COST? The fact that you can't get a haircut here for less than $30 anyway, and then to go to the nicer salons you pay about $45? And I had to do this TWICE in one flippin' DAY? The fact that I say "ouch" paying $40 for ONE haircut and now I was doing it twice? TWICE?!?
I sat. I may have growled. The poor girl looked a little worried. But as she circled my chair and got a really good look at my hair, combing her fingers through and looking carefully, her brow furrowed. He mouth dropped open. And then at least, I heard an audible gasp.
"Um, wow. This is...um.. really, really bad."
"Really? How bad?" Please tell me that I'm not just being whiny because I can't justify another haircut just because I didn't like it. Please. Really. I'm begging.
"Well nothing is even. One side is longer than the other, there are choppy pieces everywhere, and, " she held up a piece that was longer than everything else, "What the hell is THIS? There are, oh my god, pieces underneath that are so short I don't know how I'll fix it. What was this person thinking? Where they even a real hairdresser?"
"That bad." I finally exhaled. Yes. Okay, guilt be GONE. This is now triage, people.
"A four year old could've done better with some garden shears," she giggled, and pretty soon I was giggling too. Maybe, just maybe, this day was going to turn out okay after all. Hair grows. I can live with that.
"I'll fix it, best I can. We can make it look nice. But you will have to come back in three months or so, after it grows, so I can really even it out. Some parts are so short I can't fix it without cutting all your hair off. You know, I've been cutting hair for 30 years, and this is definitely the worst hair cut I've ever seen. "
For the next hour and a half, she washed, snipped, re-sniped, hummed and hawed, with her brow furrowed, fixing and re-fixing, primping, spraying, drying, until finally, at long last, my hair was done. I felt pretty again, and even though it's nothing like I wanted and is a lot shorter, I no longer look like the victim of a 4 year old wielding garden shears.
At home I met Hubs on the front porch and was recounting the story to him, when Jake came running out to see me.
"Oh Mom, looks so much better! Great! How much did they charge you?" Leave it to Jake, the boy I love but who has zero sense of when to keep his damn mouth shut, to ask the million dollar question.
Suddenly there was complete silence.
Hubs eyes met mine, and I could see him doing the math in his head as he realized that two haircuts must have been a lot more than....oh CRAP.
Distract! Distract! Distract!
"Hey, did you guys eat?" I skipped past both of them into the house. "I'm hungry, I'm going to have some leftovers and why are there dishes on the counter?...."