Snip. Cut. Snip. Cut. Snip. Cut.
Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
I was supposed to be a hair model. That sounds cool. It is cool. It was cool, until the salon decided to replace me with a mannequin head. Not cool. The salon manager called, profusely apologizing for having dragged me and the doobies to the shop for the hair consult. She offered me a free cut courtesy of the owner. Cool again.
Days later, here I was. Seated in the chair with clips all over my head and a towel mysteriously draped over my chest. Edward Scissorhands was going to town. My hair was flying off my head in all directions. At times, I couldn't even see. When the follicle frenzy settled, my mop was on the floor instead of my head. I was distressed.
Oh. No. What. Have. I. Done. I became an Edvard Munch painting.
The Scream (Edvard Munch, 1893)
He must know what he's doing, I thought. He's the owner. He has a picture of Vidal Sassoon autographed by the big V himself. Artisan of the angle. King of the bob cut. I feared that my cut missed the mark and made mullet.
The clips came down. More hair came off. Then, Edward was done. I remained unconvinced. But, I tried to convince myself. Hair is dead. Hair will grow. How can something dead grow? I can buy hair extensions. Mike married me for better for worse. The kids won't recognize me. Sold.
Out came the hairdryer. The mullet blew left. The mullet blew right. I had no idea how I could recreate the scene unfolding so I could achieve the same effect.
The wind stopped. The sun came out. The birds were chirping. Edward was pleased. I told him I loved it and ran like hell.
It's been three days since my hair got whacked. Everyone who has seen me has complimented the new do. I didn't get it.
"It's a hair-STYLE," said Robyn.
"It's too high maintenance," I argued. "I want my Cher-hair back. I look like a mother with kids. It's too grown up."
"You ARE a mother with kids. Maybe you should grow up."
Ouch. What next? Was she going to tell me I looked fat in my jeans, too?
Just like a mirror, good friends don't lie. Robyn's right. My hair has grown up. It looks good. I need to issue an apology.
Edward, I'm terribly sorry. You done good. I never should have doubted you.
P.S. I'd tell you that I won't grow it out, but that, my friend, would be a lie.
[Photo by Matt From London]
