My Hair Don’t

For the past two years my Mom and I have been driving to a salon in Red Deer to have our hair cut by Aaron, a master of the scissor craft. Despite his wild hair and numerous piercings, Aaron was a sensitive gentleman with a knack for good conversation, remembering important details and names from your life, and an eery sixth sense to know exactly how to cut your hair. You can imagine, therefore, why we were so devastated when he declared in November that he was leaving for a 6 month vacation in Costa Rica before moving to Vancouver for good.

That left us in a real pickle. What to do? Where to go?

Well mid-January is a long time to wait, so finally we got a little antsy and bit the bullet. We booked an appointment at a salon in Red Deer, hoping it would be everything we’d hoped for…and MORE! We gathered every ounce of courage that we could and headed to our date with destiny.

The salon was located at the very edge of the city and we had a heck of a time finding it. We finally found it, took a deep breath and went inside. The huge salon was surprisingly empty. It was trendy enough, and we were lulled into a false sense of security.

I was the first victim. The stylist asked me how I’d like my hair cut. I told her I’d like to go a bit shorter, a little edgier with more texture. She said that was not a problem and set to work. I will never know what happened in the next ½ hour. I think I may have blocked it out for emotional reasons. When I came to the stylist was using a razor to texture my hair. I think she had no concept of my hair type or the fact that I have a cowlick. She just kept sawing away at my head. It was damp when she started, but got drier and consequently shorter as time went on. When she finished it was quite the scary sight, but I told myself to be calm and trust in the stylist. Usually cuts look much better after they are dried and styled. As I am thinking this she says “ALL DONE! Or do you want a little product?”

HELL YEAH, bring on the product! I have hair the consistency of a beaver pelt. Without a fist full of goop you might as well give up.

“Ok” she says meekly, as she dabs a fingertip worth of wussy gunk in my hair. I don’t think she understands we need MORE goop, STRONGER goop. She half-heartedly rubs it around on my head. A noogie would have done a better job.

I bravely smile and thank her for my new style. It looks remarkably like Lloyd’s hair on Dumb and Dumber. Every woman feels beautiful after a bowl haircut.

My Mom went next. She assures me her fate was similar, but I think she looks presentable (ie. Can show her face in public within the next 8 weeks).

We left the salon and had a good laugh in the car. I suppose laughing was a good choice, considering the only other reasonable reaction was tears and shrieking. My Mom tried (in vain) to reassure me that my hair didn’t look like one of those hedgehog shaped boot cleaners people have next to their front doors. She said things like “Now your hair won’t get in your eyes!” to which I responded “Yes, not for at least 3 months!” She said “All you need is some styling product” to which I replied “Yes, some of that spray on hair to put on my forehead where there is hair missing”. Somehow the stylist left the bangs on the left down to brow level while the right side barely skims my hairline.

The only saving grace was that I didn’t get a chance to have a brow wax so I can easily tease my brows up and claim they are my bangs.

It is quite an adventure I’ll tell you. My hair is about 1 inch long in most places, aside from the mange-esque fringe here and there for “texture”. My cowlick causes the “bangs” to stand straight on end, springing up like a rooster's ass feathers. My, oh, my. It’s a good thing my Dearly Beloved is stuck with me because there is no way I’d attract a mate in this lifetime with this ‘do, er, “don’t” I should say. I am tempted to cut my losses and shave it all off and start over. Ai yi yi.

I can’t believe I paid someone to make me look like this! Now I can understand why my Mom stopped going to stylists after my youngest BroLo was born. She let it grow and didn’t return to a stylist til Log was EIGHTEEN years old. Her hair was past her arse, but it sure didn’t look this bad. I’d be pleased if my hair looked half as good as arse hair. Ahhhh, well, what can you do?? I guess the best therapy for such a terrible occurance is to write about it for all the world and post a picture as proof.

Til next time,
Tam (“What the hell happened here?”)