“Beauty” Salons and Me

I’m about to go get another haircut; it’s something I feel compelled to do every so often, despite the results.  You think I’d learn…

I have fine, slightly wavy hair, and I have learned, over the course of my life with this hair, that I need to tell it what to do; left to its own devices, it tends to leave me looking lumpy and nerdly and utterly peculiar. So a blow-dryer and one of those round metal hairbrushes figure largely in my mornings, and in general, I can persuade my hair to lie smooth and look like it’s full.

But if I go to a beauty salon for a “cut and blow dry”, I leave looking unbelievably awful.
Frumpy.
Matronly.
Middle-Aged.
Definitely not “beautiful”.

It galls me to think that total strangers who see me in such a state might think that I planned to look like that. And they do see me – beauty salons are in public places, after all.

We were out of town last spring for a family wedding, and with time to kill one morning, my husband and I went to get our hair cut. I told the stylist that I wanted a blunt cut about one inch shorter than the hair I went in with. I’m still not sure what happened between my uttering the words “blunt cut” and her hearing the words “just like Morticia Adams”, but obviously something went wrong with the great cosmic consciousness that morning. After cutting and drying my hair, she attacked it with a straightening iron, making sure that every hair on my head was dead straight.  As in plastered to my skull.  Not really a good look for me.

All right, I can hear you saying it. Why didn’t I stop her? And I think that’s an excellent question. It’s like I’m hypnotized or something. All I can do is stare in horror as I am turned into the spitting image of Cher or an Irish Setter or something, watching my face in the mirror trying very hard to look as if that was my life’s ambition. Under normal circumstances, I look at the finished product front and back (with that hand-mirror they give you), and tell the stylist, “Yes. Much better, thanks” in a faint, wispy sort of voice. I maintain the stiffening façade of delight long enough to pay my bill and add a tip (!) and make an escape. Whenever possible, I then drive straight home, soak the whole mess, and re-dry it so that I look normal again. It’s a grueling experience, if you ask me.

And I’m about due again…