From the overly blonde highlights to the weird haircuts to the slicked-back gel ponytail, I've walked out of those oversized glass doors with an, uhhhh, eclectic range of results, but Thursday's was by far a first.
On Thursday, my hair was absolutely perfect:
THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE. In a lifetime of "what in the fuck is going on around my pale long face?", I have never left an establishment of change and been happy with the results. It was long in all the right ways, it wasn't hard and plastic-y like my prom hair mishaps, the curls weren't Toddlers and Tiaras-style like my hair disaster at the VMAs — it was just spot-on, exactly how I'd dream of looking each day if I was a foreign socialite living in a Midtown East hotel wearing only Isabel Marant because I'd "heard it was cool."
So what did I do?
I cut it all off.
Pictured: the still-puffy aftermath of one professional blow-dry, two heat products, four different gel-frizz-creme-sprays and thirty minutes of silent fury.
I'm not sure where Friday afternoon's thought process solidified itself, but somewhere on the pre-trainwreck ride between needing to get my hair done for a wedding and going "This is great, lets make sure it's great for fall!," I walked in thinking I'd get a trim, said all the wrong things, and now look like a Williamsburg-ian lesbian bartender.
At a worst, I'm waking up early to curl it and then straighten it for the next three months before inevitably putting it up each afternoon, and at a best, it'll match all of my seven new thick-strapped, arm hole tanktops (fuck), but to come so close to perfection and fuck it up disappoints me in such a deep, infuriating way, because I'm not only going to hear the voice inside my head going, "what the fuck is...UUUUUGHHHH WHYYYY" every time I look in the mirror. I'm going to have to deal with a serious dose of I Told You So's from none other than Audrey Wisel.
When I was a kid, my mom was obsessed with the idea of me having long hair. (And, frankly, still is.) She lamented having to chop my locks when I was a kid because I wouldn't stop crying from her combing out all of the tangles and knots, so she — please focus very closely on this next sentence, because it is the furthest from normal you'll encounter today — saved my ponytail of "banana curls" in a storage-sized Ziplock bag in the tippy-top of our linens closet for the next fifteen years.
Yep. There was an oversized plastic baggie of my child hair inside our house as a no-scrapbook-necessary reminder of how I couldn't endure the pain necessary to be beautiful.
It should come as no surprise, then, that Audrey used to threaten to not pay for my haircuts if I asked them to take a lot off — these times being when I was twelve and my allowance supported weekly Archie comment and a 70% off lotion from Limited Too if I was lucky, not a customary tipping-give-the-shampoo-girl-three-bucks type of situation. I mean, in a way I kinda get it — if you've got something good, why get rid of it? — but every time I get it cut, every single time, if it's anything north of significantly shorter than before, it's a bona fide disasterfiesta.
In the past 48 hours I've figured out a combination of heavy goops and hair twists to make it look like a poor man's version of Jennifer Aniston's wavy-curl post-iconic haircut, but I get the feeling I'm going to become a staunch supporter of the Chicago Cubs and their protective, brimmed hairwear for exactly the next two and a half months.
It's bad enough when you wake up with your hair looking more hungover than the rest of your body — never will a photo of that curly-wave mess appear on this site — but when you add my mom going, "Well, hmph, you know what I always say" when she comes to town in twelve days, it's just the shit icing on the turdpile cake.