Sunday, June 24

Hair Today, Fucked Tomorrow

Three days ago, in this sticky death chamber heat, I woke up at 6:45 in the morning to go get my hair done. For someone who broke a blow dryer six months ago and never looked back, this ain't typically my style, but when sitting in a chair at Bumble & Bumble reading "How Did You Get This Number" for two hours and eating a free bagel stick results in free shampoo and other pricey hair goops I can't afford, I stick it out. (Though, any reason to not have to lift my twig arms to wash my own hair would probably suffice.)

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.

Congratu-fuck me-lations.


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I can't wait twelve days, what happened? Last week I said I loved your hair, I also said, "Don't Ever Cut It Again" Nobody ever listens to me.... If you need a hair piece with banana curls, I know where you can get one.....
I love you anyway, I just have to figure out a way to ban you from Bumble and Bumble, more like Bumble F--k!

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