The other day I was sitting about looking at my unruly mop in the mirror and thinking it was about time I took a trip to the salon. After doing the math I realized it had been well over nine months since my last hair cut. I was way past due.
You know how some people are afraid of the dentist, or the doctor? Well, I'm afraid of the hair salon. I'm always so afraid I'll walk out of the place looking much worse than I did when I went in there (and that is hard to do).
Most of the time, my fears are confirmed when I get home and the first thing out of my roommate's mouth is, "Woah, you look like you have just been head humped by a waffle iron!"
After a few such incidents, I found myself willing to spend a few extra dollars to get a good cut, because I was under the impression that haircuts are like cuts of beef. The more you spend the better they will be. But you don't squeeze a banana to see if it is ripe, so why would you judge the quality of a salon by the rates they charge? It makes no sense. That was a lesson I didn't learn until after I left one of Denver's hippest, well reviewed salons forty bucks broker and sporting a baseball cap.
That was when I went on the nine month streak without letting a soul near my golden locks. I finally caved last week when my sister suggested we head down to the local Super Cuts because she had a coupon. Of course she had a coupon; my sister doesn't go anywhere unless she has a coupon. Forcing her to pay full price for something is like forcing her to admit her butt is much bigger than mine; it's just not going to happen.
I can't tell you why I would ever agree to go to a Super Cuts, but not ten minutes after I found myself sitting in the barber chair of some girl who looked and had the aura of a stylist with about a week of salon experience under her belt. I was beyond mortified, I was obviously insane. If I were not so lazy I might have jumped up and run away from this girl before she could so much as ask what I was looking for. But I didn't like the idea of running, or jumping up, so my cheeks stayed planted in that chair.
When it comes to salons it's not so much the place that scares me, it's the stylists. I think my bias and generalized opinions of hair stylists spawn from a past roommate. She was a behemoth of a woman who gave stylists everywhere a bad name. She talked a lot of trash and proudly wore the "I'm a bitch and I'm proud of it!" logo across her chest. At any given time she would leave my place littered with bitch contraband, or more lovingly referred to by me as "cuntraband".
This includes gossip magazines, lacy thongs ten sizes to small to fit fit her hide, and her little pink pipe. But she carried herself with a "stylists" attitude. She even looked like a stylists, making it hard for me to ditch my bias opinion. Maybe this is why I've been doomed to a lifetime of bad haircuts.
But as much as the stylist is my worst nightmare, I am theirs. Aside from my usual I-hate-the-world demeanor that the stylist will be forced to put up with when I wander my way into their station, I also never know what I want. All I know is I need a trim, I kind of expect them to read my mind. And then there is my hair. It's really curly in some places, a bit wavy in others, and straight as a stick in the rest. It just can't make up it's mind.
Anyways, I told her I didn't want to loose much length, maybe two inches. She complied to that by chopping off more than six inches. After that my eyes were puckered shut for the rest of the event. I didn't want to see what was happening, much in the same way I don't like to watch the doctor give me a shot.
But when all was said and done, this girl exceeded my expectations. For the first time in years I have a head of hair cut just so that all the extra weight is gone, allowing my natural curls to come out. It falls just right around my face, and only cost twenty bucks. Somehow I get the feeling like this is too good to be true, like when I go back there that young stylist won't be working there any more. I will be doomed to several more years of bad capilli trimming.
