My hair is very temperamental. Some days it likes to lie flat, others it wants to curl in gentle waves, and still other days, it can't make up it's mind and does a little bit of both. On really damp or humid days, it is just outright defiant and turns into one big ball of frizz - bottles of mouse and hairspray are consumed on those days in attempts to make it somewhat presentable.
These are the many reasons I am most reluctant to get my hair chopped, since one wrong cut and my hair goes all Jekyll and Hyde on me. So one morning, a couple of weeks ago, I decided that today was the day my hair met Mr. Scissors once again. After many split ends, numerous knots, four inches, and 10 months of growth, I had decided that my haircut was long overdue.
Nothing would stop me that day from getting my locks lopped off. Knowing that I just couldn't go anywhere to get my hair cut, I scoured internet sites, read reviews, checked coupons, until I found a place that sounded like it would meet my needs. I decided to go with a shop that could schedule me in immediately and praised itself for being able to cut ethnic hair. After all, I figured my hair qualified as being ethnic.
I was on a mission, and I couldn't wait until my regular hairdresser had an opening to cut my hair. Besides being frugal and broke, I decided I needed a more affordable cut. I would just have to do without the shampoo, foot and head massage, and a hairdresser that values symmetry, because apparently this new salon did not.
The new salon was no bigger than a closet, and about as cozy and bright as one too. It mirrors rested on the counter in a slant since apparently it was too much trouble to hang them on the wall. Three women sat and waited with hair much frizzier than mine, while two others got their hair groomed by two separate hairdressers. My first instinct was to run the other direction, but I decided I would not judge a hairdressers ability by the way they kept their salon.
I should have run the other way, because after a quick shampoo done only because the stylist misplaced her spray bottle, a puzzled look after asking for a two layer haircut, and many haphazard cuts, I ended up with hair that was unevenly layered on half my head, and one side one inch longer than the other. This I didn't notice until I got home because as soon as she said she was done, she popped a hand held mirror bigger than the windshield of my car in my face and asked how I liked the back. The back looked fine as far as I could tell since it was sopping wet, but mostly, I just wanted to run out of there, and get them as far away from my hair as I could.
I came home dismayed. The Dada took one look into my eyes and knew I was teetering on the edge, about to explode into fits of tears. He said my hair looked fine, and you couldn't notice the unevenness when I had it up. It didn't matter because even if I put it up, I knew my hair had been butchered. I solemnly held my head to the right. The side that ended up one inch longer, and in my mind, that was why that side felt heavier.
I eventually scheduled a haircut with my regular hairdresser. I had to admit I had cheated on him with another much less capable hairdresser, and was now returning to him knowing that he could make it all better. So after $70, two hair dressers, many MANY cuts, and hair that had to end up one inch shorter than desired, I eventually got my haircut - completely layered and symmetrical. Next time I will have to remember the lesson relearned (because I am just that thick)- be patient, and stop being such a cheap ass.