September 11, 2012
Short, ME Newsletter, Vol. 5, Issue 37
For the first time since I've been seeing her, going on five years, my hair stylist and I had a miscommunication. It was a rather large one, too.
My hair grows slowly; very slowly. So slowly that a haircut usually makes it for at least six weeks, sometimes even eight weeks. For some reason, my hair took to growing at a faster rate this summer, and at only week four, I realized it was getting shaggy and top heavy. I made an emergency trim appointment. So, on a Monday night at 6:30 PM, after a fabulous sushi dinner with my brother, I headed to the salon.
“Wow,” my stylist commented, “your hair grew fast! What are we doing with it tonight?”
“The same,” I said, “only shorter.” A shampoo and deep condition later, the snipping started.
Having just taken a cutting class with Nick Arojo, who was shorter than she thought he would be, she told me about the techniques he had taught. She has used every one since she returned from Chicago just a week ago. A short time later, I viewed the style head-on and thought it looked great, a little short than usual, but great.
It wasn’t until I was sitting at a stop light in Jackson that I got a good glimpse at the other parts of my head. I checked out one side and then because I was sure that the reflection of the setting sun behind me was skewing my vision, I checked out the other side. Running my fingers over my head, I realized there was no atmospheric distortion, and my hair was very, very short. I ran my palm down the backside and re-realized, my hair was very, very short. Sheared, might describe it best. Like a sheep, I guess.
I had to make it home before dark. It was too late to go back, and I convinced myself that it just felt shorter than it was. As soon as I walked in the door, I hit the glaring bulb starkly honest bathroom mirror and inspected the suspected damage.
The color, or lack thereof, was a little bit of a shock. I have thin hair anyway, so the close crop meant my scalp was visible and that there wasn’t any artificial color left on the sides or back. That left them a light caramel shade of pale brown with sparklies. By now you should all know how I feel about sparklies, but just in case there is any doubt: I don’t like them. Miss Clairol and I are tight and will probably always be. I never had any intention of rediscovering my true roots, natural hair color. And although, grey is my favorite color, I'd rather not see it in my hair. The top is still rich chocolate with crowning vanilla slices. Sadly, the sides are rain watered mud puddle with silver tone leopard patches that appear translucent in the wrong light. Suddenly, there’s plenty of wrong light.
Truly, she did what I asked her to. She cut my hair the same way she always has, and then… she cut it shorter. I had a flashback to the last truly awful hair cut I had back in the 80's. My brother asked, “You didn’t pay for that did you?” My mother said, “It will grow out.” My father offered, “There’s always scarves...” Today’s mixed reaction were almost fun. I got a few surprised, “Oh! You've had a haircut!”s and a few “you look very nice.” I’m guessing the latter were distracted by the emergency make-up purchases I made last night and the bright puce and pink paisley shirt I chose to camouflage myself in this morning.
I still feel my chubby cheeks are too round, my ears are too awkward, and my scalp is too glaringly shiny for this cut. Other than that, it’s really fine. I still love my stylist. I'll just make sure we communicate a little better next time.
On the brighter side, it won’t blow around or droop much in the lovely, misty, Irish September winds.
Posted by jaselin at September 11, 2012 06:19 PM