But when I left the salon a few hours later, I didn't feel pampered. I felt like a wet moron with bad hair.
As a low-maintenance person, I'm usually the one who tells her friends, "It's only hair...it'll grow out. That's the beauty of a bad haircut." And to this day, I've only had 3 haircuts that made it into the "bad haircut" book.
#1. The Perm
Ok, before you get all uppity, try to understand. I was a freshman in high school who was used to long, straight hair and all I wanted was my sister's hair. Long, wavy, and beautiful, it was chestnut infused with a hint of golden-red. I refer to my natural hair color as "honey brown" because it sounds better than "dirty blonde." But since I didn't want to color my hair, my alternative was to change the texture.
Gretchen played the role of a concerned Big Sister intent on helping her Little Sister transform from a child into a mature adolescent. She brought me to an upscale salon in her urban town rather than where I normally went -- someplace in the mall where newly-trained stylists practice their talents on house fraus and kids who typically dye their hair with Jell-O.
She went over my request for a "full-body perm" with the stylist and assured me I would not end up with an old-lady tight-curl perm. So as I sat under one of those giant bubble-helmet dryers you see in movies, images of bouncing beautiful curls floated through my mind as the acrid smell of hair solution stung my nostrils.
"This is it!" I thought. "I am going from a nobody to a somebody!" Montages of girls in movies who went from an ugly duckling to the most popular girl played over and over again.
As the stylist took the curlers out of my hair and blow-dried my new wavy mane of luxurious locks, I couldn't wait to show my mom and Gretchen. But then I caught his look of uncertainty out of the corner of my eye. Followed by another.
When he spun me around to showcase the final product, he burbled with caveats, "If you don't like it, I can...." and "If you want to come back another day and try...." I was suspect. As I toddled away, puzzled, I caught my reflection in a storefront window and thought, "But my hair...it's not bouncing...it's kind of frizzy curls...." My doubts weren't unfounded as my sister assured me it was "not bad."
The next day, as I readied myself for school, I fully recognized the scale of my hair disaster and immediately cried after stepping out of the shower. I did some troubleshooting and did the only thing that made sense. I washed and rewashed my hair about 5 times that morning, hoping I could get those wiry, unfriendly kinks out of my hair.
And while it did speed up the de-perming process (it only took a few weeks for the entire perm to fall out of my hair completely), the damage was done.
In 2nd Period science with Mr. Wallitch, Nick K. walked in and sat down next to me. I eyed him, hoping against hope I could just fly under the radar. Then he said, "WHOA....what happened to you this weekend?"
#2. The Butchered Pixie
It was 1998. The year Gwyneth Paltrow, Cameron Diaz, and Drew Barrymore all had pixie cuts. It was also the year I started college.
Determined to start fresh, I wanted to shed my old skin, leave the four years of high school spent permanently embarrassed and self-conscious behind me and emerge a confident, self-assured woman.
While I was with Harve at her uncle's beach house that summer, I spent $9 and had my medium-length Sigourney Weaver hair lopped off to transform me into a quirky, eccentric pixie cut. Or so I thought.
Instead, I was transformed into what people have called, "a butch lesbian." What I didn't realize was that women with pixie haircuts are usually dainty, bird-like, petite, even delicate. Not words typically used to describe me. Instead my physique was described as "stocky, like a softball player," "short and muscular," and my wardrobe was primarily "asexual."
When I came home from the beach house, proud of my naked neck, my dad bellowed, "JESUS, HEIDI. How much shorter are you gonna go???"
#3. The German Dutchboy
Which brings us to this month.
While I WILL confess that I used a Groupon for my haircut, I WILL NOT correlate coupon = shitty haircut. I've used Groupons for haircuts the past 4 years and I've made it out alive.
Walking into the shop I thought, "This is artsy...this place has a cool vibe...maybe this place can be my neighborhood salon..." and then I feasted my eyes on the two stylists. Both over 50, the woman most likely over 60. And I hate to be an ageist, but....let's face it, if I want a modern style a 70-year-old woman is not where I'm going to look first. If I want someone to tell me about life before the war, hey, she's my girl.
Arriving 10 minutes early, they both looked at me similar to the way deer look at you. Right before you plow into them with your Chevy. The man, who I'm pretty sure is the owner, said he was running late and had to finish the girl in the chair AND the woman after her. Well, that's just great. Thanks for recognizing my time is also valuable, you assbag. But I consoled myself saying, well, he may be running late, but at least I'm not going to get Frau Hairdo, the wrinkly thin old woman with spikey gray hair and a thick German accent.
25 minutes later, Frau calls my name. In some salons, they offer you a coffee, tea, latte, or a glass of wine. At the very least they offer you a bottle of water. This place....offered nothing. So now I'm already in a bad mood because I'm late, I have a Golden Girl working on my hair, and I'm definitely not feeling "pampered."
As she washed my hair, I prepared myself for my favorite part of a haircut. The wash, the suds, the warm water, and the head massage. But 5 seconds into it with cool water, Frau said, "Your hair....iz not in good condition....I mean....I hate to say, but....iz in pretty bad state." Well no shit. Ok, I dyed it a bunch of times and now I'm letting it grow out. I have a healthy hair mullet -- healthy on the top, dead on the bottom. Get over it. But wait! The sink is off already! Surely that can't be....why yes....she's already toweled me off. 15 seconds of cool water splashed on my head and that's her idea of a "shampoo + conditioner."
On to the cut. I explained that I wanted "just a trim."
Dragging a paddlebrush through my hair (at age 7 my mom taught me to "use a comb on wet hair") and starting at the top of my snarled mop of hair (Mom Z. also taught me to "start combing from the bottom, so by the time you get to the top, the whole bottom of your head is combed out"), she yanked and pulled my hair until I nearly had a headache. Then I heard those musical little scissors, "snip, snip" followed by, "You want an inch andda haf, two inches?" Uh, actually, no, but.....thanks so much for ALREADY CUTTING MY HAIR.
So it was that she hacked off two inches of hair. In retrospect maybe I should thank her for freeing those dead, straw-like ends off. I mean, they're going to have to get cut at some point. Then again, all the hair in my eyebrows will also fall out and replace itself, but that doesn't gear me up to shave my eyebrows either.
But at the time, I was livid. Not that she just hacked off an inch and a half more than I wanted, but also because out of the corner of my eye I saw her old pasty arms and hands SHAKING. As in, I'm-an-old-person-and-I'm-spilling-my-coffee shaking. As in, I'm-having-trouble-opening-my-Werthers-butterscotch-candy shaking.
After she finished, she half-heartedly blow-dried my hair into a style made popular by my Hollywood brother, Ricky Shroder, in his movie debut, Little Lord Fauntleroy.
So I left with my hair half-wet, my back half-soaked, and my sensibilities at half-mast.
I was livid. I was hysterical. So I did the only thing that made sense.
I went home, I reshowered and spent 20 minutes shampooing my shortened locks.
But...it's only hair....and it WILL grow out. Eventually.
That German woman is my downstairs neighbor, she is the owner of the salon.
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