Thursday, December 27, 2007
Me and Victoria Wuz Running with Razors
I know I asked in my last post if anyone else could relate to post-holiday disasters. How 'bout hair challenges? Since I'm just like you and go to Walmart on a regular basis and once in awhile I do a survey of heads, and I'd say 7 out of 10 women might want to look for a new hairdresser, I have to wonder. I've always thought being a hairdresser or an English teacher would be the most depressing of careers. It's so rare to see really great hair that when we do, we tend to ask, "so do you mind telling me where you go to get your hair cut?", and they're so flattered that usually they reach up and pat their 'do and go right ahead and tell you who, where, how much, etc. English teachers I just feel sorry for, with all the 'they wuz', or 'them thar', or 'you wasn't' stuff I hear, usually on the same Walmart trips. I'm not sure which career has less rewarding results- bad hair or bad grammer.
So, like many women, I have hair issues. My face is oval so supposedly I can wear almost any haircut, but in reality anything longer than my chin makes me look like the cartoon Cruella Deville, it's thicker than the average bear's and I do mean literally, it has about 95 cowlicks or what I prefer to refer to as 'natural waves', and I'm not great at fixing it even when it's well cut. It's also about half grey or at least I suspect so, since like Beth Moore, that's a secret known only to God, not me or any of my girlfriends. Soon as roots peek out they are saturated in Hydrience Tawny Breeze, and I'm back in happy denial again. I'm just saying styling hair is not my strong suit. The only blessing is that I know it. When I get my hair cut, I watch carefully to see what she does, with what products, so I can replicate back at home. Because honestly going home to cook supper and do laundry when your hair looks fabulous is just not very satisfying. I'd like to look smashing when I'm out participating in the other parts of my life, like grocery shopping, or taking the trash to the curb.
I had a great hairdresser for three solid years, man could she cut hair, and I could actually fix what she cut, but then we started doing color and highlights on a regular basis. Every five weeks I'd show up and shell out over $100 for her to color and 'touch up' the highlights she'd put in the last time. Finally when our checkbook was looking pretty thin, and my haircolor resembled Jessica Simpson's, I broke up with her. Being the brave person I am, I chose someone else at the same salon, but they worked on opposite days. When she started cutting my hair it was chin length. After three visits the back was shorter than DH, and what with winter coming and all, and I didn't really want to wear a toboggan all the time, I ditched her too.
Seven weeks later, after the back of my scalp didn't show through anymore, I stopped into a shop at the mall, where some girl with a funky name and funkier hair and makeup worked on my hair. She kept saying 'oh my' as she snipped here and there, and proceeded to tell me she could work on it, but it'd take more than one visit to fix the mess. The mess I'd been paying through the nose for. Seems I had this funky shelf of hair across the back of my head that didn't blend too great. I did develop a bit of a girl crush when she even mentioned my hair and the name Victoria Beckman in the same sentence, but decided since I don't have a body that stops traffic, nor the tattoo running down my back to go with it, I should probably move on. The hair looked better, but anyone who even thinks of Victoria Beckman while working on my hair is probably not in touch with reality enough to trust with scissors. So the hunt continued.
Two weeks ago at my favorite local coffee shop I spied a friend, whose hair looked fabulous. Nice long layers with just enough choppy, beautiful highlights, you noticed her face and the hair was just the icing on the cake. Perfect. I proceeded to ask, 'do you mind my asking where you get your hair done?' and she proceeded to tell me who, where, how much, just like I thought she would. It was the daughter of the local coffeeshop, and I love to support local talent, so I picked up the phone, made my appointment and showed up. Walking in, I quickly realized the shop was owned by someone who attends my church, generally a basic no for me - it's hard to break up with your hairdresser and then stand next to her and worship the following week. Trying to take the safe route, I showed her my photos - no Victoria Beckman, but rather Debbie Mumm, my age, pretty tasteful hair, not too out there, not too dated. Long straight layers with just enough choppy in them, with a little flip in the back. Great, she loved clients who brought photos!
When she picked up the razor and proceeded to whack at my hair, then hold up each side to see if they were the same, and lo and behold they were not, so she had to whack off a bit more, and the hair on the top of my head began to stand straight up, as if saluting someone in a parade, I was concerned, but what can you do? You can't just bail out of the chair halfway through the scalping. I prayed and kept my mouth shut. Smiled, thanked her, paid the bill and even put on a nice tip, since I knew I'd never be seeing her again, and it was Christmas after all.
Back home, my husband (who has been married long enough to know to tread carefully when it comes to discussing new hairdos) only said, "can I just ask if that was the look you were going for?", and I assured him hair that is somewhere between Liza Minelli and a woman who wakes up and sticks forks in sockets was not exactly the hair goal. When I get up in the morning my hair is so scary I just don't do anything to it, rather brush my teeth, pour my husband's coffee, pack his lunch, and rely on the length of our relationship to get us through the next four or so weeks of this disaster.
So I emailed my girlfriend who has had good looking hair for the eleven years I've known her, has been going to the same stylist for 23 years and never cursed her name in my presence - told her 'here's the deal, I don't care what she charges, tell me her name.'
So I'm making an appointment with Nina, and I'm more than happy to hand over what she's going to charge me every five weeks to keep me presentable, but before we even move to the sinks I will explain to her that much like Samson should have, no razor will ever touch my head.
Labels: Girl Talk
posted at 10:00 AM