This was me at around 15:30 today. I was not happy. Can you tell?
I used to look like this:
I liked this hair cut. It made me feel pretty and thin and like I looked LIKE A FUCKING GIRL.
I’ll try and keep the story short.
I got my hair cut like a month and a half ago like it is in the second picture. I liked it; I liked the chick who cut it. But, my mom convinced me that I should try the chick who cuts Mom’s hair. “You’ll LOVE her.”
Ok. Might as well.
My hair philosophy has always been, “It’s just hair. It will grow back.” I have never been one to freak out about a weird color or cut because it’s not permanent. Worst case scenario I’d just shave my head. [Something I’ve always wanted to do anyway.]
I showed up at the hole-in-the-wall scary hair shop fifteen minutes early because, “If you’re on time you’re late.” and stuff.
Not a soul in the shop. Sure, the sign read “Open” but that door was locked up tighter than a nun’s ass. So, I sat. Outside. On a bench. Under a really small awning. While it rained. I waited on this woman for ten minutes past my appointment time.
Finally, a SUV pulls up and these two women get out with bags of fast food in their hands and one of them asks if I’m waiting on them. Ya think?!
I follow them in and the bleached blond chick asks me if I’ve made an appointment with her or if I’m just a walk-in.
Me – “I made an appointment with you three weeks ago.”
Her – “OH! I wrote it down on my calender but not in my book.” Cause that’s supposed to explain it all to me.
And that’s when I should have walked the fuck out. BUT, I didn’t. Deep down, I don’t like being rude and I didn’t want her to tell my mom that I had walked out. Basically, I ignored my gut and was a chicken shit.
She washed my hair and started cutting. And she cut and cut and what she was doing wasn’t looking ANYTHING like the pictures I had brought in.
Then she starts blow drying my hair. With an itty bitty little round brush. Which made my hair about three feet high. Next came the styling wax – “To give it a piecy look” – and finally the hairspray that your 75 year old grandma uses.
And that, dear reader, is how I ended up looking like picture one.
After paying her [and tipping – told you I’m a chicken shit] I went back to the place that originally cut my hair the first time and they fixed it and the guy didn’t charge me.
Now, I have a pageboy haircut of sorts. The front of my hair doesn’t touch my eyebrows and the hair at my ear is short enough that the very bottom of my earlobes show.
My piece of advice to you: If the person referring you to a hair shop hasn’t changed their own hairstyle in 26 years then take their recommendation with a grain of salt.
Also, I’m going on a “Caracation” [Read that like Cara + Vacation…Tucker came up with it.] tomorrow and will be gone all day. Please be kind in the comments since I shant be here to obsessively remove mean things.