The quest for
perfect hair
I think I’m like most women, in that I have a hate/hate
relationship with my hair. (I can hear the men snoring already.
That’s okay. This time, I’m not talking to you.) Curly or straight,
long or short, no woman is ever happy with what God gave her and
sadly you daring men who are still reading this, have to hear all
about it before a night out on the town.
The quest for
perfect hair
I think I’m like most women, in that I have a hate/hate relationship with my hair. (I can hear the men snoring already. That’s okay. This time, I’m not talking to you.) Curly or straight, long or short, no woman is ever happy with what God gave her and sadly you daring men who are still reading this, have to hear all about it before a night out on the town.
Looking through style books at the salon (that’s Super Clips, to us gals with less money than taste) last weekend, I realized that for $17 bucks out the door, including tip, if I’m so inclined, will send me on my way with damp, flat hair. Or if I am really lucky, I’ll get a Newbie who thinks “style” equals mass amounts of gel, shaped into some sort of slick freakish pompadour which would be the envy of the “Grease” cast.
I have given up asking them to style it once they’re done cutting it, so I can make sure I’m getting what I asked for. But my normally cute flippy do looks startlingly like a mullet, if done wrong and without the proper tools.
Now, I let them have their way with me, and under cover of dark glasses and sometimes a hat, I go nowhere but home to salvage what I hope is the exact replica of the airbrushed photo I’d shown to the “stylist.”
It’s almost like Christmas morning, running up the stairs to find out what awaits me and my hairdryer. Sometimes, it’s a good surprise and sometimes, I want to stay home until things are a little less Billy Ray Cyrus.
I trace this unhappy relationship back to when I got tired of taking care of my long hair that took a full 20 minutes to dry every morning before I’d run out the door to battle Silicon Valley traffic at 6:30 a.m.
I’d seen a cute short style that I liked and by some stroke of luck the next weekend, the stylist had done a great job. I walked out of the salon with a spring in my step feeling like I almost looked just like the smiling girl in the picture.
Ever since, I’ve been like an addict chasing the dragon. No cut’s ever been as good as that one. I get chills and start to shake every time I think of it. I just know that this time it’ll be the cute cut to end all cute cuts. Women will come up to me on the street and ask me who does my hair. I will be discovered and then famous for my fabulous hair. I will have a cut named after me. Yes, it can happen… what other talent did Jennifer Aniston have before she perfected “The Rachel?”
“The Kelly” will be the cut that all working Moms will want. Short, stylish, perky, with just a hint of attitude.
So this time, I closed my eyes as she clipped and blew hot air from the dryer down my neck. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I took a peek and it had promise. I smiled to myself. Yeah, it looks fine now – she’s only cut a couple of pieces.
I avoided looking in the mirror as I stood up to leave and again as I paid the cashier. I didn’t realize until that moment just how many mirrors there are in a hair salon and I didn’t know where to look.
On the way home I noticed that I was humming a familiar tune, which I never liked and hoped it wasn’t so. I knew I’d forgotten to tell the stylist not to break my Achy Breaky Heart and had hoped it would be a Merry Christmas.
