September 28, 2007
The music, however, was still too damn loud.
I got highlights yesterday. Suffice it to say it had been some time since the last, as in post-senior prom but pre-BlogHer. I was not looking good. (As in I was slightly worried that my coworkers in the coming days might start referring me to the closest shelter.) I've also been highly irritable. The hives are gone, but the dermato-illness remains, and the novelty of scribbling my initials into my own skin while in a port and prednisone haze has worn thin if not absent. I'm on edge, a Grade A biddie the likes of which rivals that displayed only in the retirement community, the old hag who draws her pink lips outside of any documented in anatomy textbooks and who makes snide comments at the Labor Day picnic about Ethel's store-bought macaroni salad. I am not in a good way.

And so it was tonight that I almost strangled a woman.

My stylist had completed just shy of 80 percent of the foil that would make me presentable. I was tired. And it was hot, even without the double cape that somehow didn't protect me from a shirt soaked courtesy of the new shampoo girl. I was reading Conde Nast Traveler and feeling subpar that my upcoming travel itinerary included Florida rather than Phucket. I was itchy. No. I was definitely not in a good way.

And then it spoke.

The girl diagonal from me wanted her bangs cut. Simple enough. She came with no frills, no curls, no horns or missplaced genitalia that would otherwise create an issue that would necessitate drama or a consultation. A snip here, a snip there, and she would be sent on her merry way, off to a NW happy hour without, it was possible, even a shampoo. One would think.

Then she hedged. Was her razor-toting stylist sure the trim would look good?

They will grow back, I thought.

She told him she trusted him as she brought her hands back to rest on her knees. She breathed in deeply and exhaled in restrained panic. And in the next instant she transformed herself from cute and neurotic girlie girl into big fat ginormous liar when she stopped him in his tracks with a barrage of anxiety and raised tones, of what ifs and no waits, of questioning her captor as to just how short the results would be.

They are bangs. Made of dead hair.

Where would they end up again in relation to the brows?

You mean the other splotches of dead hair on your head? Just cut them. Before I do.

And what exactly did he mean by blend?

I scanned her ring finger. Someone had asked this nerve ending to be his wife.

She agreed. Then like a nervous virgin at beach week she pulled away, a grown woman, right there in front of us. Metric conversions were made and there was more discussion of inches than in a cruel girls' day-after debriefing.

On second thought, couldn't he just cut them as she'd asked? Her stylist was sweating and quite possibly stuttering through his frustration. Or maybe cut them just as she'd had them when she came in? You know, twenty minutes ago, when my own private Idaho of horror began and my ovaries were still half full?

The God that created antihistamines saved me when my sweet, loving stylist folded the last foil into my head. I cornered her by the dryers and exclaimed in "It's Timmy; he's in the well!" staccato that I was about to explode and very well might cut the bangs myself. Without measurement aid or sharp instrument or professional patience! And all while trying to steer clear of the young girl's neck!

My lovely, unfazed lady offered me a styrofoam cup of cold water and I eventually relaxed, then gripping a copy of Elle that made me feel subpar for owning Mossimo rather than Marc Jacobs. I may or may not have murmured about the event to no one at least twice during my recovery period. And texted at least one of my similarly impatient cronies about the debacle and my ensuing discomfort. To be honest, I was only somewhat surprised to see, upon returning to my stylist's station and the full mirror, that my pink lips were drawn exactly where a young woman might expect them to be.


14 Comments:

Blogger t2ed said...

Haircuts suck. Where else would you let a semi-stranger wave a sharp object around your eyes?

Yul Brenner rules!

Blogger Sizzle said...

oh good god. i would have had a hard time holding my tongue. good thing i am not a stylist. i would injure people with my impatience!

Blogger jenn said...

That impatience and on-edgeness? That's the prednisone talking. It sucks, but it will fade when you're off the stuff.

Blogger flutter said...

Oh sweet jesus, in two weeks it'll be the same as it was before, you mouthy little whiner.

Good lord.

Blogger Tracy Kaply said...

This in it's entirety explains why I am a BEAUTY SCHOOL DROP OUT.

No one needs that level of bloodshed, dude.

Blogger Lawyer Mama said...

Dude, if it makes you feel any better, I would have snapped. Like a twig. And then I probably would have held that chick down and shaved her head.

Blogger Mrs. G. said...

This is one of the funniest posts I've read in ages. I, too, pay for highlights and four times a year, I dread shelling out he dough and sitting in that god forsaken chair. I admire your restraint.

Blogger Diane Mandy said...

Very funny, Kris. And I think I know that girl--she wa ssitting across from me when i had my foil done. Geesh!

PS. Found you via Egan.

Blogger gorillabuns said...

just as long as you didn't have blue hair staring back at you, i think you are completely normal if not subnormal in your reaction.

screaming, "shut it! dumb bitch! bangs grow, like in two days after they've been cut!" is pretty much the reaction i would have shouted.

but then again, some one say, i'm slighly too aggressive these days.

Blogger punky said...

oh if all the world were as funny as you ... there would be no need for anti-depressants.

Blogger KB said...

I get really agitated in that chair b/c my stylist tries to talk to me too much. :( And rips my hair out.

I am so impressed with your restraint. I would have killed her. Or at least said "Shut the fuck up already" under my breath. Loudly.

Blogger Shawn said...

I think you just made me feel good about getting old and losing my hair.

If ever you do snap and drown someone in the washing sink, I would be glad to hide you in Wisconsin...no one ever looks for fugitives in Wisconsin.

Anonymous Anonymous said...

I think you just made me feel good about getting old and losing my hair.

Anonymous Anonymous said...

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