레이블이 50 Shades of Grey Bundle인 게시물을 표시합니다. 모든 게시물 표시
레이블이 50 Shades of Grey Bundle인 게시물을 표시합니다. 모든 게시물 표시

2013년 11월 29일 금요일

About 'trilogy like 50 shades'|50 Shades Later…







About 'trilogy like 50 shades'|50 Shades Later…








Haircuts               from               Hell:               The               Trilogy               (Part               1)               Why               on               God's               green               earth               are               there               no               songs               dedicated               to               the               impossible               pursuit               of               a               good               hairdresser?!

The               search               for               a               good               man               is               the               stuff               of               legend               and               song.

Women               kvetch               in               bars               and               beauty               salons               about               the               frogs               they               have               kissed               trying               to               find               the               prince               hidden               inside.

Many               have               the               warts               to               prove               it.

But               for               millions               of               women,               a               good               hairdresser               trumps               the               hardships               of               finding               a               good               man!

Sure,               we               know               the               general               hangouts.

And               we               have               recommendations               from               trusted               friends.

But               unlike               dating               a               guy,               you               really               have               to               "jump               into               bed"               with               a               hairdresser               to               know               if               you've               found               a               good               match.

Go               out               with               a               man               and               you               get               a               feel               for               how               he               may               act               in               a               relationship.

Not               always,               but               a               few               more               dates               and               you               know               pretty               well               if               he's               a               control               freak,               a               braggart,               a               stinge,               a               romantic               or               just               too               needy.

The               final               phase               can               be               delayed               until               you're               ready,               but               if               this               guy               has               real               potential               as               a               mate,               the               bedroom               is               less               likely               to               be               a               deal-breaker.

And               you               can               allow               a               little               leeway               for               the               learning               curve!
               Not               so               a               hairdresser.

Say               you               like               the               ambiance               of               the               salon.

The               cost               is               right.

You               find               this               person               pleasant               and               understanding               about               your               needs.

And               three               close               friends               swear               this               hairdresser               is               God's               gift               to               women.

But               until               you               put               your               trust               in               those               powerful               hands               and               commit               to               the               cutting,               you               don't               know               squat,               sister!

I               know               whereof               I               speak.
               Recently               I               received               the               third               Haircut               from               Hell               of               my               life.

It               got               me               all               worked               up               about               this               issue               with               hairdressers               and               who               can               we               trust,               and               how               many               women               have               been               traumatized               at               the               hands               of               professionals?

Almost               every               woman               I               know               has               Haircut               from               Hell               stories.

It               often               starts               in               childhood               with               mothers               who               always               cut               the               bangs               too               short.

Though,               when               I               was               growing               up,               they               revolutionized               hairstyling               with               the               Toni               Home               Perm.

Oh,               God.

I               remember               those               noxious               fumes               and               the               hard               little               curlers.

Followed               by               a               long               period               of               overly-tight               hair               that               you               could               barely               get               a               comb               through,               and               adults               oozing,               "Don't               worry.

It'll               loosen               up               soon,               and               you'll               look               really               pretty!"               Gee,               my               mom               said               I               was               really               pretty               before               she               gave               me               that               hideous               perm.
               Haircut               from               Hell               I
               My               first               real               Haircut               from               Hell               will               probably               hold               the               title               of               #1               Worst               Ever               for               the               rest               of               my               life.

It               was               a               dreary               winter               day               in               1982.

The               fifth               month               of               my               fifth               pregnancy.

I               needed               a               pick-me-up.

Having               no               favorite               hairdresser               yet,               I               ventured               into               a               salon               at               Lazarus,               because               we               had               a               charge               card               there,               and               they               were               having               a               sale               on               perms.

Big               hair               was               in,               and               unlike               my               sister's,               my               hair               was               never               big               without               help.

Confident               and               hopeful,               I               pointed               to               a               picture               of               a               slutty               model               with               black               hair               and               Brooke               Shields               eyebrows               and               asked               if               my               hair               could               poof               out               like               that               with               a               perm.

No               problem,               she               assured               me.

Two               hours               later               I               emerged               resembling               the               Bride               of               Frankenstein,               minus               the               white               streak.

I               had               not               gone               in               and               said,               "Can               you               make               me               look               like               that               hot               wench               who               married               the               Frankenstein               Monster?"               Yet               somehow               my               stylist               must               have               interpreted               my               request               that               way.

Strangers               sidled               away,               fearing               I               may               have               escaped               after               an               aggressive               round               of               shock               therapy.

My               friends               and               family               could               not               look               at               me               without               choking               back               laughter.

Followed               by               lame               apologies,               "I'm               sorry...

(snicker)....

It's               not               really               that               bad."               (suppressed               giggles)               When               I               went               to               pick               up               my               husband               in               the               lab               where               he               worked,               one               of               his               co-workers               later               asked,               "So,               Doug...

your               wife               stick               her               finger               in               a               light               socket?"               These               science               geeks               aren't               known               for               their               suave               social               skills.

Only               my               sissy               was               totally               sympathetic,               "You               should               sue               their               asses!"               She               has               anger               issues               with               hairdressers.

Weeks               later,               when               it               had               calmed               down               and               returned               to               its               own               color,               my               picture               was               taken               at               our               daughter's               fifth               birthday               party.

So               I               do               have               photographic               evidence,               but               I               suspect               the               statute               of               limitations               for               a               lawsuit               has               expired               on               Haircut               from               Hell               I.
               Haircuts               from               Hell:               The               Trilogy               (Part               2)
               In               my               whole               life               I've               had               only               two               to               whom               I               committed               my               heart               and               hair.

It's               a               scary               world               when               you               bounce               around               from               one               hairdresser               to               the               next,               wondering               if               this               may               be               The               One,               never               knowing               who               to               trust,               never               knowing               where               you'll               get               your               next               cut.
               I'll               never               forget               Derrick               (not               his               real               name).

A               sweet               little               guy               with               soft               hands               and               soft               voice               and               a               biting               kick               to               his               humor.

We               were               together               from               the               mid-80's               to               the               early               90's.

Derrick               didn't               just               listen               to               my               woes,               but               he               shared               his               own               futile               search               for               the               right               man.

I               advised               him               that               strip               bars               (gay               or               straight)               may               not               bring               out               the               best               in               a               guy,               and               he               should               consider               widening               his               search               area.

Derrick               was               able               to               follow               my               descriptions               when               I               came               in               with               references               like,               "I               want               to               go               for               that               cute               hairstyle               Holly               Hunter               wore               in               "Broadcast               News".

Derrick               would               always               tell               me               if               my               hair               was               too               thin               for               some               style               or               if               it               would               make               my               face               look               fat.

It               was               an               honesty               I               relied               on.
               Haircut               from               Hell               II
               One               day               I               entered               the               shop               in               a               deep               funk.

Kid               problems,               health               issues,               not               enough               sex,               dog               messes,               yaddayaddayadda...all               had               me               worn               down               and               vulnerable.

Derrick               could               see               my               misery               and               asked               how               he               could               help.

At               last,               someone               who               could               actually               do               something.

A               perky               new               look               would               be               a               wonderful               morale               booster.

I'd               see               a               different               woman               in               the               mirror,               confident,               in               control               of               her               life,               attractive               even!

So               I               put               myself               in               his               hands.

I               uttered               these               fateful               words,               "Just               do               whatever               you               want.

I'm               ready               for               a               new               look."               Do               not               ever               say               these               words               to               your               hairdresser!!!!

I               beg               of               you!

You               may               think               you               know               him               and               he               knows               you.

But               you               do               not               know               what               creative               ideas               may               lurk               in               that               mind!

And               you               probably               don't               want               to               be               the               blank               canvas               on               which               they'll               be               released!
               His               first               thought               was               to               make               my               dark               hair               a               shade               of               burgundy.

Not               that               there               haven't               been               times               I've               been               open               to               experimentation.

But               as               a               forty-ish               woman               who               ran               her               own               day               care               home,               I               thought               the               timing               was               off.

Bad               career               move.

Maybe               that               idea               should               have               put               me               on               alert,               but               I               sank               into               a               comfortable               haze               listening               to               Derrick's               home               decorating               plans               for               his               new               house               and               envying               his               freedom               to               make               choices.
               It               should               be               noted               that               this               occurred               before               the               cataract               surgery,               which               traded               my               myopic               lenses               for               better               ones.

When               I               sat               in               Derrick's               salon               chair               with               my               glasses               off,               my               vision               extended               about               six               inches               from               my               face.

The               mirror               was               a               blur               of               lights               and               colors.

I               could               feel               my               shoulder-length               hair               falling               around               me,               but               I               was               getting               psyched               to               see               the               new               look.

After               all,               Derrick               knew               my               cardinal               rule:               No               Short               Bangs!

I               liked               them               fringy               and               touching               my               eyebrows.

The               rest               was               up               for               grabs.

Or               so               I               thought               in               my               innocence.
               My               mood               was               improving               with               each               snip,               aided               by               Derrick's               cheerful               demeanor.

(Of               course               he               was               cheerful...

a               client               who               gives               carte               blanche               is               a               hairdresser's               wet               dream!)               When               he               finally               whipped               the               drape               from               my               shoulders               and               handed               me               my               glasses               with               a               big               Ta-DA,               all               the               lights               and               colors               in               the               mirror               took               on               shape.

I               saw               my               own               face               fall               from               gleeful               anticipation               to               horror.

I               can               barely               describe               what               I               saw               on               my               head,               but               it               could               have               been               road               kill.

Totally               asymmetric.

That's               no               offense               in               itself.

But               short               spiky               little               irregular-length               hairs               poked               every               which               way               on               one               side,               and               a               mish-mash               of               oddly               arranged               lengths               dangled               and               argued               for               space               on               the               other,               while               a               thin               strand               came               to               an               angled               point               on               one               cheek!

Where               my               bangs               used               to               be               stood               a               spiky               crewcut.

I               have               seen               three-year               olds               take               scissors               to               themselves               and               end               up               with               a               style               that               made               more               sense!
               "Breathe.

Breathe.

Oh...

My...God!"               That's               what               went               through               my               mind               right               before               the               dam               burst.

Not               silent               embarrassed               hidden               tears.

There               was               no               holding               this               flood               back.

I               cried               openly               and               hard.

At               least               the               shop               had               emptied               by               then,               but               it               would               have               made               no               difference.

I               was               sobbing               words               about               just               wanting               to               look               better               and               being               so               worn               out               and               now...this.

Poor               confused               Derrick.

He               lay               his               hand               on               my               shoulder,               and               his               brown               eyes               softened               into               empathetic               sadness.

In               the               gentlest               tone,               he               crooned,               "Hon...

I               don't               mean               to               pry...

but               are               you               on               your               period?"               Aaaaarrrgghhh!
               I               chanted               the               Bad               Haircut               Mantra               all               the               way               home,               "It'll               grow               back.It'll               grow               back.It'll               grow               back."               When               I               went               to               my               mother's               house               to               plead               for               help,               she               stood               dumbfounded,               studying               the               challenge.

We               were               both               used               to               my               sister               returning               from               her               stylist               in               tears.

She,               too,               would               enter               full               of               hope               and               anticipation               with               a               wild               mane               of               hair               to               be               tamed,               only               to               leave               with               a               blonde               Afro               and               the               conviction               that               there               is               indeed               a               secret               code               among               hairdressers               that               states,               "Whatever               the               customer               asks               you               to               do,               it's               wrong.

Customers               are               basically               idiots               who               don't               know               what's               best               for               them.

So               whatever               they               tell               you,               ignore               it               and               go               with               something               you've               been               dying               to               try.

If               possible,               take               secret               photos,               so               we               can               all               have               a               good               laugh               at               the               next               convention."               I               now               accepted               her               premise.
               Mom               had               only               one               solution,               "Well,               Allene,               all               I               know               to               do               is               cut               it               evenly               all               over               and               give               you               a               home               perm."               Oh,               God,               not               the               old               Toni               home               perm               from               my               childhood!

It               made               me               shudder               to               recall               those               tight               hairdos               to               which               every               girl               in               the               50's               got               subjected.

But               what               recourse               did               I               have?

Skinhead               isn't               my               look.

So               I               gave               my               hair               once               again               into               my               mother's               hands.

She               did               her               level               best,               and               I               no               longer               resembled               an               aging               punk               who'd               pulled               an               Edward               Scissorhands               on               her               own               head               during               a               bad               trip.

For               the               next               few               weeks               I               looked               like               those               old               pictures               of               the               1930's               schoolmarm               with               tight               little               pincurls               plastered               against               her               head               and               a               look               of               constipation               on               her               face.

I               count               the               Derrick-Do               as               Haircut               from               Hell               II.

(Mom's               Toni               Solution               was               an               improvement,               or               it               could               vie               for               III.)
               And               yes,               I               stuck               with               Derrick               until               he               moved               away,               but               I               kept               my               glasses               on               whenever               he               cut               my               hair!

Besides               hair,               Derrick               had               other               valuable               skills.

For               my               sister's               naughty               bridal               shower,               we               hired               Derrick               to               be               the               stripper.

And               he               was               superb!

Who               knew               his               time               at               the               strip               bars               had               practical               application?

After               watching               him               shake               his               fine               booty,               I               had               to               forgive               his               Haircut               from               Hell!
               Haircuts               from               Hell:               The               Trilogy               (The               Final               Cut)
               From               the               time               Derrick               abandoned               me               in               the               mid-90's,               I               wandered               without               direction               again,               bouncing               from               one               hairdresser's               chair               to               another.

I               took               needless               risks               with               perms,               unflattering               lengths               and               unnatural               shades               of               red.

Until               one               day               I               noticed               signs               of               thinning               hair,               especially               at               the               crown.

God               help               me,               not               male-pattern               baldness!!

At               this               pivotal               point               in               my               hair's               life,               it               fell               into               benign               neglect.

I               just               let               it               grow               long               and               resorted               to               the               old               bun               on               top.

Not               the               tightly               controlled               ballet               bun,               but               a               sleazier               top-knot               cousin               with               dangling               strands               and               long               fringed               bangs.

That               was               fine               until               I               couldn't               fake               it               anymore.

So               commenced               the               hat               phase.

Most               days               I               wore               a               beret               (as               seen               in               my               AC               photo).

My               collection               of               berets               rivaled               the               colors               of               a               floral               bouquet.

In               summer               there               were               brimmed               cotton               hats               and               flowery               straw               hats.

At               my               job,               the               young               man               with               Down               Syndrome               I               assisted               coined               my               new               nickname.

He               dubbed               me               Hat               Lady.

Luckily               for               me,               my               New               York               City               genes               are               imbedded               with               a               love               of               hats.

When               my               sissy               and               I               were               younger,               a               favorite               activity               was               to               go               to               a               clothing               store               and               try               on               dozens               of               hats.

The               sillier,               the               better.

In               fact,               the               whole               point               was               to               laugh               ourselves               into               snorting               hysteria               until               we               were               nearly               thrown               out               or               had               to               race               out               before               we               peed               on               the               floor!

So               wearing               a               hat               is               fun               for               me.

But               having               to               wear               a               hat               is               not.

Fearing               the               wind               will               whip               off               my               cover               and               leave               me               exposed               is               a               drag!

So               a               few               years               ago               I               made               a               bold               move.

Go               short.
               From               a               lucky               "fling"               with               a               young               hairdresser               was               born               my               new               pixie               cut.

It               magically               de-emphasized               the               thinning               parts,               and               as               long               as               she               didn't               cut               my               bangs               too               short,               it               looked               pretty               good.

The               freedom               from               worrying               about               whether               my               hat               might               blow               off               was               exhilarating!

But               the               fatal               flaw               was               her               persistence               in               blow-drying               and               rounding               until               it               looked               like               a               helmet.

I               wasn't               trading               hats               for               helmets.

Before               leaving               her               chair,               I'd               rough               up               my               helmet               and               make               it               more               edgy               right               in               front               of               her.

It               felt               like               a               test               of               wills               over               my               hair.

Screw               that.
               And               then               Lexi               (not               her               real               name)               came               into               my               life.

A               down-to-earth,               holistic,               organic,               laid-back               lady               about               30               who               threw               in               a               little               chair-massage               with               a               hair               cut.

She               seemed               to               come               up               with               prices               based               on               how               she               was               feeling               that               day.

If               it               was               her               feeling               that               the               trim               she               gave               was               no               work               at               all               and               you'd               been               in               a               few               weeks               ago,               Lexi               might               say,               "Oh               that               was               so               easy,               there's               no               charge."               The               same               cut               on               another               day               might               go               for               twelve               or               sixteen               dollars,               but               it               was               always               reasonable.

Lexi's               real               passion               was               teaching               Pilates.

When               she               styled               hair,               she               never               let               people               give               in               to               that               sudden               impulse               to               just               cut               it               all               off               or               "Do               what               you               want.

I'm               ready               for               a               new               look."               Haircut               from               Hell               II               would               never               have               happened               at               Lexi's.

When               I               brought               my               sister               there               to               take               eight               inches               and               seven               layers               off               her               mane,               Lexi               couldn't               bring               herself               to               do               it               all               at               once.

She               wanted               to               be               sure               the               customer               didn't               leave               crying               the               Bad               Hair               Mantra               (It'll               grow               back.It'll               grow               back.)               My               sister               had               to               go               back               three               times               begging               Lexi               to               take               more               off               before               she               got               it               short               enough!

And               unlike               many               hairdressers,               Lexi               had               no               ego               about               this               style               being               her               creation,               and               how               dare               that               customer               not               behold               it               as               sacred               art.

I               had               become               a               very               wary               customer               who               kept               a               constant               eye               on               proceedings.

If               it               looked               like               the               next               snip               might               cross               the               No               Short               Bangs               rule,               I               had               no               qualms               about               covering               my               head               with               my               hands               and               saying,               "Whoa...

what               are               you               planning               next?"               And               when               Lexi               thought               she               was               done,               she'd               let               me               examine               sides               and               back               and               suggest               any               changes               needed               for               the               look               I               wanted.

Lexi               was               basically               my               dream               hairdresser.

And               then               out               of               blue,               she               was               gone.

Shop               closed.

No               phone.

It               is               rumored               she's               still               around               teaching               Pilates               full-time.

I               hope               it's               true.

I               hope               she's               happy.

But               once               more               I               was               left               to               wander               the               salons,               taking               risks               with               strangers,               again               wondering               if               this               might               be               The               One.

Then               in               October               of               2008,               when               the               excitement               of               politics               was               at               a               crescendo,               the               anticipation               of               monumental               change               was               in               the               air,               I               dived               back               into               the               hairdressing               pool               and               took               my               chances.
               Haircut               from               Hell               III.
               The               poster               stood               outside               the               little               shop               in               the               mall.

For               weeks               I               studied               it               every               time               I               passed.

My               hair               had               been               growing               out               for               nearly               three               months               since               Lexi               disappeared.

I'd               resorted               to               my               old               hat               habits               again.

But               this               slightly               asymmetric               cut               could               be               just               the               new               look               I               needed.

A               hint               of               the               short               pixie               cut               on               one               side,               but               the               rest               swooped               from               the               part               on               the               left               over               to               the               right,               somewhat               covering               the               other               ear.

It               angled               down               toward               the               cheek,               and               the               bangs               were               part               of               the               whole               fringy               swoop.

It               had               an               air               of               sophistication               without               the               stuffiness.

A               respectable               style               with               a               touch               of               mischief               and               rebellion.

Maybe               I               read               too               much               into               the               model's               expression,               but               I               psyched               myself               for               weeks.

On               that               fateful               day               I               went               in               when               it               wasn't               crowded.

A               matronly               woman               and               a               very               young               slender               waif               of               a               woman               were               chatting.

Both               worked               there.

I               pointed               to               the               poster,               then               took               a               breath               before               removing               my               hat.

I               pointed               out               my               problem               areas,               especially               the               thinning               crown.

I               described               what               I               was               hoping               out               of               this               hairstyle               and               why               I               thought               the               one               on               the               poster               might               work               for               me.

"Do               I               have               the               type               of               hair               that               can               have               that               hairstyle?"               I               asked               in               good               faith.

They               both               poked               around               on               my               head,               like               shoppers               on               a               ripe               melon,               and               seemed               to               nod               and               hmmm               agreement.

The               consensus               was               yes.

I               hoped               the               older               woman               would               do               my               hair,               but               she               was               the               manager               and               assigned               young               Sweetpea               (not               her               real               name)               to               take               care               of               me.

Sweetpea               was               a               darling.

She               enthused               that               they               had               the               "instructions"               for               that               style               and               pulled               out               the               glossy               card               with               step               by               step               sketches,               just               like               a               recipe.

I               relaxed               a               bit.

How               could               she               go               wrong               with               the               precise               instructions?

I               took               off               my               glasses               and               let               down               my               guard.

Note:               I'm               no               longer               profoundly               nearsighted,               but               I               wasn't               paying               close               attention,               either.
               The               snipping               seemed               to               go               on               longer               than               I               expected               while               Sweetpea               told               me               about               her               new               puppy,               her               new               roommate               and               the               new               apartment               they               were               getting               when               she               moved               out               on               her               own               for               the               first               time.

It               occurred               to               me               to               ask               how               long               she'd               been               doing               this.

"Two               months!"               she               answered               with               pride.

Ok,               but               she               had               the               instructions               and               consulted               them               a               lot.

Still,               I               felt               my               blood               pressure               rise               a               few               points.

By               the               time               I               thought               to               focus               on               the               mirror,               I               was               actually               afraid               to.

All               that               hair               I'd               been               growing               out               the               past               few               months               seemed               to               be               lying               on               the               floor.

I               had               expected               it               to               be               swooping               across               my               head               and               draping               long               thick               fringed               bangs               at               an               angle               across               my               forehead.

When               Sweetpea               turned               to               get               something,               I               quickly               ran               my               hand               across               my               too-smooth               head.

I               forestalled               panic               with               denial.

"OK,"               I               thought,               "It               feels               really,               really               short,               but               I'm               sure               in               those               instructions               she's               following               so               closely,               there's               a               part               where               she               magically               makes               it               all               stand               up               and               look               longer.

Please,               God."               But               I               just               had               to               put               on               my               glasses.
               It               was               gone.

All               the               hair               I               brought               in               to               create               a               longer               style               was               gone.

It               was               gonner               than               any               short               cut               I'd               ever               worn               in               my               life.

Gonner               than               the               worst               break-up               haircut               I               ever               gave               myself               when               barely               a               fourth               inch               of               hair               stood               defiantly               on               my               head.

Was               this               a               horrible               joke?

Was               I               being               punked?

Cause               this               time               I               would               sue               their               asses!

Sweetpea               seemed               oblivious               at               first               as               she               dabbed               a               little               finishing               product               in               the               rubble               of               my               hair.

I               had               entered               deep               shock.

My               hands               gripped               my               cheeks               and               nose,               almost               like               hands               folded               in               prayer.

Or               cupped               for               hyperventilation.

Only               my               eyes               were               showing,               and               they               could               not               hide               the               growing               horror.

My               breathing               grew               shallow,               and               as               if               witnessing               another               person               in               the               mirror,               I               saw               the               tears               welling               up.

My               heart               pounded               with               fear,               and               I               began               to               mutter               words               into               my               hands.

Muffled               "Omygodomygodomygod,no,no,no"               must               have               reached               Sweetpea's               ears.

She               stopped               suddenly               and               gave               me               a               very               worried               look.

I               tried               to               snap               back               to               reality               with               real               tragedies,               but               my               brain               could               barely               handle               a               hair               tragedy               in               this               moment.

I               groped               the               remnants               on               my               head,               trying               not               to               burst               into               full               fledged               hysteria.

I               rose               to               get               a               closer               look               and               held               the               hand               mirror               to               see               the               back               and               sides.

But               I               was               obviously               a               woman               on               the               verge.

Sweetpea               started               to               study               the               instructions               like               her               life               depended               on               it.

She,               too,               was               fighting               tears               and               nearly               pleading,               "I               don't               understand               what's               wrong.

I               was               doing               everything               it               says.

I               just               don't               understand...."               Being               a               nurturing               sort,               I               almost               fell               into               my               comfort-the-child               mode.

I               told               her               it's               not               the               end               of               world,               it'll               grow               back.

Then               I               looked               in               the               mirror               again               and               was               back               to               "Omygodomygod               (hyperventilating)               I               don't               know               how               I               can               live               with               this!"               New               realization:               "Oh,               my               God!!

I'm               starting               a               new               job               next               week!"               Then               trying               to               talk               down               the               woman               on               the               ledge,               "Ok.

Ok.

I               can               wear               a               hat               till               it               grows               out..."               And               poor               Sweetpea,               probably               fearing               she'd               lose               her               new               job,               new               career,               maybe               her               new               apartment,               was               near               panic               herself.

As               devastated               as               I               was,               it               wasn't               my               wish               that               this               teen-age               girl               commit               hara-kiri               over               a               bad               haircut               that               wasn't               even               her               own.

So               I               tried               hard               to               squelch               the               worst               of               my               self-indulgent               rant.

My               dismay               was               still               apparent,               I'm               sure,               but               I               tried               to               define               the               areas               where               expectation               didn't               mesh               with               reality.

"Sweetpea,               I               look               at               this               picture               and               wonder               what               happened               to               my               bangs."               Her               face               started               to               crumple,               "Oh,               no,               I               forgot               about               that!

I'm               so               sorry!"               My               quivery               voice               went               on,               "And               in               the               picture,               she               has               full               hair               on               top..."               whereas               I               had               flat               smooth               hair               through               which               the               scalp               was               clearly               visible               in               patches.

"Well,"               Sweetpea               struggled,               "her               hair               is               a               lot               thicker               than               yours."               "Which               is               why               I               asked               before               we               started               if               my               hair               could               do               this!"               Sweetpea               was               shaking               her               sweet               confounded               head               again               in               total               lack               of               understanding               as               to               how               this               happened.

"And",               I               had               to               point               out,               "what               about               the               hair               that               falls               at               an               angle               along               her               cheek?

Obviously               she               didn't               have               it               cut               like               this."               Sweetpea               was               trying               hard               to               sound               knowledgeable,               "Oh,               it's               cut               like               yours,               but               it's               layered               in               a               way               that               it               gives               the               illusion               of               being               longer."               Right.

And               Niagara               gives               the               illusion               of               being               a               waterfall.

It               was               too               late               to               change               anything.

No               matter               what               I               pointed               out,               it               was               not               going               to               make               the               hairstyle               on               the               poster               appear               on               my               little               round               pinhead.

And               belaboring               this               young               girl's               mistake               and               inexperience               wouldn't               make               her               a               better               stylist.

I               suspect               she'll               never               forget               our               encounter.

So               we               carried               the               tears               and               the               tension               up               to               the               register,               and               I               paid               her               the               cost               plus               tip.

(On               principle,               I               fight               the               reputation               I               heard               as               a               young               waitress               that               women               are               terrible               tippers.

So               no               matter               how               abominable               the               service,               I               will               not               give               in               to               that               stereotype.

But               damn               those               stingy               bitches               who               put               me               in               this               position!)               I               refrained               from               saying               a               word               to               her               boss,               though               I               was               pissed               at               her               for               leaving               me               and               not               checking               on               my               stylist's               progress.

However,               when               that               woman               peeked               out               and               called,               "Oh,               that               looks               real               cute!"               I               responded               with               a               glare.

Then               I               put               my               hat               back               on.

At               least               Sweetpea               didn't               ask               if               I               was               on               my               period.
               For               the               next               several               days,               there               was               not               one               time               I               passed               a               mirror               without               having               my               shock               renewed.

Throughout               our               home,               my               husband               heard               the               periodic               cry,               "Oh               my               God,               my               hair!"               I               tried               to               find               something               positive               in               it.

But               she               had               left               me               with               virtually               no               bangs.

And               where               it's               thinnest               at               the               crown,               she               managed               to               cut               it               in               a               pattern               that               left               the               center               entirely               exposed.

All               the               hairs               around               it               lay               flat,               bowing               away,               as               if               mooning               the               crown,               making               it               impossible               to               cover               the               center               with               anything,               except               perhaps               a               yarmulke.

And               wherever               the               thinning               areas               were,               scalp               was               visible,               reminiscent               of               mange.

The               closest               style               I               could               identify               with               was               cancer               survivors               whose               wispy               hair               is               beginning               to               grow               back.

I               have               deep               respect               for               anyone               going               through               that,               but               I               think               it's               safe               to               assume               most               would               not               go               out               and               pay               to               get               that               look.

When               I               showed               my               son,               who               never               studied               it,               but               is               quite               good               at               styling               short               hair,               he               played               down               my               trauma               by               noting               how               well               she               cut               that               pattern,               and,               "Wow,               she               sure               fixed               it               so               it               can't               be               made               to               stand               more               upright,               even               with               product.

Hmm.

Looks               like               it's               just               gonna               hafta               grow               out."               Thanks               for               your               diagnostics,               bubby.

He               did               acknowledge               her               complete               lack               of               respect               for               my               wishes,               and               he               offered               to               do               it               himself               next               time               and               not               even               charge               me.

I               plan               to               take               him               up               on               that.

But               my               favorite               was               his               roommate's               response.

Before               removing               my               hat,               I               drew               a               sketch               of               the               general               look               I'd               gone               in               to               get.

And               when               I               made               the               big               reveal,               there               was               one               of               those               silences               that               begs               a               cricket               soundtrack               in               the               background.

But               when               he               spoke,               this               kid               spoke               true.

"They               really               fucked               you               up,               dude!"               I               blurted               out               a               totally               sincere,               "Thank-you!"               Finally,               someone               who               understands               what               I'm               feeling...
               It               occurred               to               me               that               I'd               seen               something               similar               in               a               family               album.

Digging               around,               I               found               the               old               tintype               of               Granny               as               a               child               with               her               brother               and               sister               in               the               late-1800's.

They               had               all               been               near               death               with               some               illness,               and               I               guess               when               kids               had               high               fever,               it               was               common               to               cut               their               hair               very               short.

As               soon               as               they               recovered,               their               father               took               them               to               a               studio               in               Manhattan               to               have               their               photo               taken.

There               stood               three               very               solemn               little               children               in               haircuts               they               probably               hated.

I               thought               I               might               resemble               my               granny               or               her               sister               in               that               photo.

But               as               I               studied               it,               I               realized,               no,               with               this               hair,               I               looked               more               like               my               great-uncle               Billy.

Except               he               had               a               lot               more               hair!
               Now               that               a               month               or               so               has               passed,               I've               made               some               measure               of               peace               with               this               look.

In               fact,               it's               grown               out               enough               that               I               think               I               resemble               Paul               Simon               in               that               short               plastered               down               style.

Same               color,               similar               height.

If               there's               a               celebrity               look-alike               contest               around               here,               I'm               good               to               go!
               But               the               day               will               come               when               my               son               will               tire               of               trimming               his               mother's               hair,               or               I'll               be               ready               to               venture               into               a               new               look.

When               that               dreaded               day               comes,               I'll               haunt               the               salons,               afraid               to               trust,               leery               of               strangers,               fearing               the               risks,               wondering               if               this               will               be               The               One.

And               when               I               find               you,               when               I'm               finally               seated               and               draped               in               your               chair,               be               you               man               or               be               you               woman,               you               can               count               on               this:               I'll               be               your               Customer               from               Hell!






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    1. maemac.wordpress.com/   07/11/2012
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