A long time ago, I met a girl in Chicago who cut and colored my hair. I'm not one to strike up a relationship with a stylist, but this girl… she really got me. She understood what I meant when I told her, “I want my hair to be the lightest blond it can possibly be without bleaching it,” and, “I don’t want it to be that icky yellow color.” I trusted her. I said things like, “I don’t know, do whatever you want.”
That girl moved away, abandoning me and my hair forever (She's in Utah now BTW). But, I was determined to stick with the salon.
Enter some other dude at the salon who cut and colored my hair. He didn’t do a bad job, per say, but I have struggled with the bangs and bob since day one. And his hand shook when he was cutting my hair, and seriously, I’m not OK with that. Plus, he had a complex about beauty and youth and asked me questions like, “How old do you think I am? No… no really. How old?”
I answered early 30s even though I knew that the spray tan, the bleach blond surfer dude hair, and the ripped jeans all pointed directly upwards of 40. Try too hard, much?
It was a mixed experience. I still wanted to stick with the salon -- it’s reasonably priced by urban standards and right around the corner from work, plus I heart my eyebrow girl there -- but I didn’t want to back to him, which of course, makes going back to the salon to a new stylist nothing short of awkward.
Anyway, the moral of the story is that he quit. So that's good news.
And, I'm thinking of cutting all of my hair off. Pixie-style.