Frankenstein Hair

 

One year. It had been one year since my last hair cut. The longest my hair had been since I was single digits. Hair might be misleading. Rat’s nest, Kool-Aid-drinking, Grey Gardens hurricane cyclone (fill in the skank blank) would be more apropos. After complaining repeatedly that said locks were uncombable, partially in part because I had stopped combing “the knot” far too long ago to remember, and Darling Hubs asking more than once “Why don’t you just go see my barber?” (yes, barber – pass me a Playboy, a stogie and give me a shave while you’re at it), I still hadn’t made an appointment. On two very reasonable (re: highly illogical) counts:

1)      We’ll be moving to a new city soon, so I wanted to wait it out until I found the perfect person at the perfect salon where I would happily overpay the perfect amount for the “security” of said professional not (is there a better word I can use here?) effing up my hair (guess not).

2)      Still traumatized from a Super Cuts haircut on the east side of Austin while in college that began with me saying “just like in this picture” (of a very simple, soft bob) and ending, after the high (to be fair, coming off her high, which was the problem) hairdresser repeatedly dropped her scissors while cackling like a hyena (emphasis on hy), with me tearfully walking out of there with a worse haircut than the one my sister gave me when she was four and I was three, I vowed that overpaying was far more preferable than underpaying. (Yes, I still tipped Super Cu… well, you get the idea, because I’m a girl and that’s the kind of idiotic thing we do. At least when we’re 20).

 

Out of Africa. Hair Washing. Hair Cut. Meryl Streep lets Robert Redford wash her hair.

 

Which brings us back to Sunday night. While watching (oh the irony is rich) a Kate Gosselin special (because she is the doyenne of hair in America after all), I shouted to Dear Hubs in the other room “Will you just do it?” to which the “YES!” came emphatically and alarmingly fast. He quickly gathered scissors from the kitchen (yep), grabbed a pick (I don’t own a comb ’cause I like to roll like it’s 1985 and I still have a perm), lassoed up a bowl of water [I insisted on a dry cut so we could see the dramatic results in action (re: I didn’t want to miss any of the Kate Gosselin action by taking the time to wet my hair)], and Vidal Sasson got to snipping. To be clear, this was no Out of Africa hair experience, but it had its tender moments nonetheless.

“Do you want to donate your hair to charity?” he asked with only the biggest dollop of sarcasm (re: he knew not even someone in desperate need would want my hair). I replied with a “huh” and he got to work. And fast. Within a TLC commercial break, I found a sad, neglected five inches laying in a revolting heap on the floor. And I felt 10 pounds lighter. I cautiously ran to the mirror, where upon inspection of Vidal’s workmanship, I noted that, though very, very blunt, it was also perfectly straight (he is German after all), and really, what more could I ask for other than a Kate Gosselin peacock (I’m not a royal, people).

Ten years together and this was a first. Did I get my money’s worth? Indeed. Did I tip Vidal? No. Would I go back? You bet your Sassoon I would.

How about you? How long have you gone without a haircut? Would you let your lover cut your hair? For the record, I’ve refused on multiple occasions to cut Vidal’s hair. Would you trust a girl who can’t even comb hers to snip yours? Exactly.

 

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