Hobocamp

Friday, October 05, 2007

I got my hair cut on Tuesday. I asked for a trim or whatever, but I guess I need to enunciate more because she heard "I'd like the Rachel, please." The lady who cut it is named Lacey. It's the second time that I've gone to see her and she's super nice, so I feel badly that I'm a constant source of disappointment to her.

I'm not really one of those people who gets overly involved in my hair. It would just be an exercise in futility. For a very long time, I had straight hair. Then, one day, I didn't. Now I have wavy, curly, rebellious triangle head. It's not curly enough to be charming, but it is not straight enough to be sophisticated. And for the most part, I just sincerely don't care.

There was a very long period in which I thought it appropriate to have my roommate cut my hair, and both of us were usually kind of drunk. Photographic evidence exists of this somewhere, and I promise to post it if I find it. And then there was the time that Shmifter was visiting and we shared a bottle of wine and she offered to trim my hair, and I said thanks. Then, during the cut, we started watching something on PBS and I became completely absorbed until I heard her start to cry behind me.

It was kind of an emotional point in Masterpiece Theatre, so I wasn't overly concerned. Instead, because I am so supportive, I said "You are NOT weeping over this, are you?" And she said "No."

"Good, because that lady totally had it coming."

"I kno-o-o-w," she sniffed.

"So why are you crying?" I started to crane my neck around to look at my poor sad friend. In the process, I bumped my face against a rather large clump of what looked suspiciously like my hair resting on the shoulder of my sweatshirt. Puzzled, I looked down. There was enough hair on the ground to create a realistic wig for a mini-me. I reached up to touch my head, my fingers grazing my now-naked neck on the way. Things still did not compute, so I turned to Shmifter, who was openly crying at this point.

"It's just...it used to be so long and beautiful," she sobbed.

"And now it's not?"

She shook her head and tried to pull herself together. "I mean, look in the mirror. Maybe you'll like it!" But the expression on her face said "I'm barfing for you because it's just so bad."

And friends? It really, really was.

You remember that video where that bride flipped out and cut off all of her hair before her wedding? It's here if you were too cool to see it before it was proven a hoax. Well, I kind of had the same haircut as her at the end of the escapade. Nary a strand the same length as the other one, giving the word 'asymmetry' a whole new meaning, and some interesting bangs- but on one side of my head instead of in the front like other schmucks might have. No, not I! Talk about fashion forward! I had sideburn bang!

Bang!

I tried for a few moments to pretend that I loved it- "oh, wow! Look at how my one earlobe peeks sexily out now, and the other one doesn't! Alluring!"- but then I finally just ended up laughing. I mean, don't get me wrong. I was definitely concerned for myself. But my hair was so ridiculously bad it looked fake.

It was pretty late at night so there wasn't much anyone could do about it, so Shmifter and I finished our show, finished the wine, and went to bed. The next day, I wandered around Astoria until I found someone who would help my head. She didn't do a very good job, the lady I found, but to be fair, I hadn't exactly given her a clean slate. It was like she was on Iron Chef and the secret ingredient was dog poop.

The best part about this whole thing was that I had a second interview for a job the following day. I had met with the people the week before, when I had long hair. When I showed up on Monday to meet with some MORE people, I had the haircut that little girls give their Barbies. I eventually got the job but people definitely asked me about it a few weeks later. "Did you pick that haircut? Was it part of a costume?"

Anyway, that was a long time ago, and my hair has since recovered. But this lady who cuts my hair now says things like "Dis a prrrrroduct for you to use when blowdry your hair."

"I don't blow dry my hair. I don't know how."

"Oh. Well, you diffuse?"

"Ah, no. No, not really."

"What you do." She was CLEARLY exasperated.

"Well, Lacey. I wash it. And then, um. I go to work."

"How you suppose to meet mens at work with hair like that? Half curly half wavy half straight? No mousse or nothing?"

I resisted the urge to point out that her fractions didn't work. Instead I said "I know. I'm the worst. But if it makes you feel any better, I wear an OR cap a lot. My hair is stuffed up under that."

She sighed loudly.

"You are SO LUCKY god gave you a pretty face. If you ugly, what you gonna do? People see your face at work, so that is enough. If you can't blow your own hair, that is enough."

"Actually? They don't. Well, not during surgery. We wear masks that go like this-" I held up my hand in front of my face to show that a lot of the time at work only my eyes are revealed, all burkha-like. Lacey threw a towel at me. Symbolic, no?

But now I have new Rachel hair. It's fine. It's just hair. It's very forgiving in that no matter what you do to it, it will usually grow back eventually.

In other news, though, guess the fuck what!

The exotic and fun-loving Mindy of Minneapolis, that poster child for butt sex and geriatric banging and Brazilians and puppies, will be coming in to town! Check out her blog for her full itinerary. Because she's from Minnesota and is coming all the way to New York City, I will be a responsible hostess and take her to a farm. They don't have those there, I think.

I'm very excited to meet her. And to hang out with her. You know, I can't type the url to her blog without thinking "Mindy Does Maples" which makes her seem rustic and outdoorsy. In any case, she's so fun and smart and funny that I simply cannot wait until we are real-life friends. My little friend Meg will be joining us too, half in the bag, she claims. All the better.

We will take lots of pictures and if you are lucky, post one or two.

Labels: accidents, blogs, friends, silly

posted by A Lover and a Fighter at 9:43 AM -

15 Comments:

At 12:04 PM, mindy said…

I am SO excited to meet you. And even more excited that your hair has grown out, because I am NOT friends with people who have bad haircuts.

YAY!
At 12:42 PM, Hellafied said…

Oooo I love blog reunions! I am heading to Minneapolis this weekend to watch one of my very first blog friends get married.

You guys have fun!
At 1:28 PM, Peter DeWolf said…

"It was like she was on Iron Chef and the secret ingredient was dog poop." <--- Well played.
At 2:29 PM, TK said…

You are determined to end up dead in a ditch, the victim of a blogging serial killer, aren't you.

So sad... I'll sing a dirge for you.

Also, as I've mentioned elsewhere - this is why guys get wiffles. Hair is just too much trouble.
At 3:08 PM, Arjuna said…

yeah, I'm with peter. that was, like, the analogy of the fuckin century!!

that was fun reading that. post more, what do you have, other stuff to do or something? i think not.
At 11:27 PM, fathima said…

i like this Lacey person. especially when she tells you to have pity on the ugly people of the world.
At 10:43 PM, kelm said…

From time to time I have the desire to take a pair of safety scissors to my own hair.

From now on I will read this story when I feel the compunction coming on.

Thank you for saving me from my plastic pink-handled grade 2 safety scissors.
At 8:31 AM, A Lover and a Fighter said…

Mindy! You saw my hair last night. It had gotten big.

MG- I hope you are having so much fun! The internet is amazing.

PdW- I just tell it like it is.

TK- Where I come from, a wiffle is an adjective or modifier qualifying a baseball diminuitive.

Arjuna-poop is always a crowd pleaser- i can take no credit.

Fathima- she is like mother theresa in platform flipflops.

Kelm- when I was committing hair violence against myself, my weapon of choice was my pair of office/hybrid scissors. Dull as shit. It was all a terrible idea.
At 3:30 PM, jamelah said…

For awhile in my misguided adolescence (which is different from my misguided adulthood in that now I am older) I went through a phase where I thought I should have bangs, even though there is no way I should ever have bangs, and I would cut them myself, because why would I get a professional for that? They're just bangs! And my friends would always say really supportive things to me like "Hahahahahahahahdidyoucutyourbangsagainhahahahahahahah" which was really swell of them, I must say. Years later, I accidentally dyed my friend's hair yellow. Yellow. And then once I dyed the top of my head orange. Like if I had a center part, then for two inches outward on either side... orange. I don't know why I am allowed to have hair.

Also, yay, Mindy!
At 2:44 PM, TK said…

Where I come from, wiffle is the buzz-cut haircut that guys get in the summer. Sorry, Mass-speak.
At 7:59 PM, Evie said…

Does Lacey have a hairdresser colleague called Cagney?

PS - Ok you may have a gummy bear, what colour?
At 10:26 AM, Anonymous said…

this story still makes me weep and weep and weeeeeeeep

shmifter
At 12:19 AM, JMH said…

Thank you for linking my blog. It has improved my Technorati standings. I enjoy that.

But not as much as old people sex (geriatric banging), which, for ad revenue, should be combined with WD-40 for maximum profit.
At 9:20 AM, mindy said…

TK, I do NOT AT ALL appreciate you insinuating that I am some kind of serial killer! Meg is totally still alive. So there.
At 11:43 AM, Jenn said…

I once got a Monica that I did not ask for. As in a Monica Lewinsky cut – and I was living in D.C., during the height of the Monica scandal. I was going straight from the salon to a bar to meet friends, and even thought I had ducked into a Burger King bathroom and messed it up as well as I could, I still got called “Monica!” by strangers as soon as I walked in the door.

Your stylist with her hair tips should team up with my coworker and her make-up/wardrobe tips, and together teach women everywhere how to land more men!