Hair Care, Part I

Call me Samson: my hair is my strength. For me, a haircut is as traumatic as the concept of open-heart surgery. Is this completely irrational? Yes. Does hair grow back? Yes. But the hairdresser who shredded your long, even locks has now sentenced you to the life of an ugly duckling for months. The kicker is that you PAID them to do this to you.

The majority of hairdressers on the planet struggle with a simple concept called LISTENING. Someone like me who has long hair (I like long), straight hair (I like straight), and plain hair (I like plain) sees a haircut as a simple maintenance job – much like the clipping of toenails or the oil change of a car. I’m looking for a slight enhancement, not a transformation. Hairdressers on the other hand, tend to view me as their own personal blank canvas upon which they will design an artistic masterpiece. This is why I usually end up looking
a. like a fifteen-year-old girl attending prom (who’s up-do could survive a hurricane intact)
b. like a spiky haired British boy (my least favorite since growing out time is six months plus)
c. like the wicked witch of the west from Wizard of Oz (since the hairdresser’s fashion-forward layers have made my hair uneven and pointy at the bottom) OR
d. like a Vogue cover girl (this usually involves giving me bangs) who without the daily assistance of an expert stylist looks like a cracked-out school teacher.

It’s amazing how the words “just a trim, please” can attain such a variety of styles. After having cursed the hairdressing profession for years, and having sobbed in one too many salon bathrooms, I stopped getting professional haircuts. Best decision I ever made – cause let’s face it; burning twenty dollar bills over your stove is less painful than watching your entire face change shape after paying someone to trim i.e. shave your head.

Alas, having my roommate cut my hair (with me watching in a mirror and approving every snip while breathing into a paper bag) could only last so long. My ends became drier than straw and my splits a noticeable embarrassment. Something had to be done.

Since years of experience had taught me that I’d most likely loathe the outcome of my haircut, I decided that I wouldn’t spend money on it (I mean really, what’s the point of paying someone to make you miserable when most of your family members are willing to do it for free). I also have a personal theory that the more expensive the salon, and the more “genius” the hairdresser, the wackier they make you look. When they’ve taken $500 from you they have to justifying it by making you look really different (hence your transformation from YOU to some shaggified, layer-ized cliché). If they don’t do something radical for half a grand it’s like they’re crooks! (Which, P.S., they are.)

Determined not to get screwed over once again, me and one of my more adventurous friends (we’ll call her Twiggy) decided to venture into the Bronx for a cheap haircut down and dirty style. Twiggy and I worked briefly as hostesses together in a restaurant before driven away by the unrelenting abuse that is the Manhattan service sector. Our glamorous Hispanic co-worker constantly encouraged us to visit her local salon in the Bronx where she swore we’d be satisfied (the hairdresser was like her grandmother once removed…or something). We listened and brushed the idea off, but when Glam mentioned that we could also get eyelash extensions up in Bronxland for as little as $15 the idea became irresistible. This was right when lay women had discovered the secret of eyelash extensions (Epiphany: That’s why Giselle looks so good!?!?) and it was a must have. In New York you needed to get glued or get out.

Thus, Twiggy and I embarked on a 4 express train and were carried up to unfamiliar territory to have or hair cut and our eyelashes lengthened.

In the Bronx, horror, surprise, and yes, beautification ensued.

To Be Continued…

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Although shopping for handbags is not hard, shopping according to the fashion is. Since that rules out the wholesale handbags which are the biggest source. Shopping for fashionable swimwear is a nightmare indeed.