Last Thursday I tweeted this:
Now, I knew I was nervous because I always am before a haircut. But I couldn’t figure out why. I’m not overly picky about my hair and even if you give me a haircut that looks like you put a bowl on my head and shaved everything below the rim, then yank my hair when I ask you politely to fix it, I’ll still tip you 50 percent, apparently. Not that that ever happened to me 10 years ago in a J.C. Penney’s salon.
It wasn’t until I was sitting in the chair at the salon, trying to come up with anything, anything at all to speak with the stylist about, that I realized what was bothering me.
Small talk with strangers.
I HATE it. And it’s not like you can just pretend like you have to go to the bathroom or hear someone else calling your name and leave.
No, you can’t leave. Hell, you can’t even move your head to look away from the mirror. So you are doomed to stare at yourself, which makes me feel like I’m overly conscious of the faces I make when speaking of random topics I pull out of my ear.
And the poor stylist put up with me bringing up, out of shear, uncomfortable terror, every person I’ve ever known who’s lived or worked in Louisville, because that’s where she was from. BECAUSE SHE MAY HAVE HEARD OF THEM. (Spoiler alert: she hadn’t.)
And then there was daycare. Why did I bring up daycare, you ask? Because she has a 4 year old. I know because I ASKED. Also, I basically told her my life story, only leaving out the part about my episiotomy because I thought that might be vulgar.
We also talked about mullets. Because why not?
I’m pretty sure my incessant nervous ramblings only increased her need to get me the hell out of her chair as soon as possible. But she was incredibly nice and did a really good job with what little guidance I gave her on what I wanted my hair to look like.
(Layers! Lots of layers! MORE LAYERS! But no mullet, please. Also, I probably won’t actually fix my hair, so make sure it’ll look good with the least amount of effort on my part.)
I love my new hair. It’s so much lighter and looks like a style, not just dirty-hippie-chic. I was bordering on Crystal Gayle in the length department and needed an update.
And so here it is before:
|Cheerleader! (I made Chris take these photos. |
He barely even made fun of me.)
|Note the tangled mess.|
And after the cut and home-hair-dye, which wasn’t as calico as it usually is:
|My photographer was unavailable. |
And this one was with makeup...
|And without. A study in yellow.|
And just because I’m sharing, here’s a picture of me before mine and Chris’ date on Saturday. Polka-dots make me happy:
And this one just because the kids are super-cute:
|Self portrait of Sebastian as a little boy. And Adele.|
Sebastian did tell my hair looked pretty, but that may be because he wanted a piece of candy.