I can’t really think about haircuts without thinking of Amy, from Little Women, saying to Jo, “Oh, Jo, your one beauty!” when Jo comes back from having cut off her hair to pay for a train ticket so Marmee can go take care of her wounded husband.
Anyway . . .
Might I preface this story by saying that a bad haircut is only funny quite a bit after the fact? That is, enough after the fact that your hair has grown back in again.
Right around the time we moved back to Texas, another girl moved here and she cut hair. And I needed someone to cut my hair. She did a fantastic job and I went back again.
And then she had a baby and it’d been a while since I’d gotten my haircut and I figured she wasn’t cutting hair for a while and one of my friends had said that she’d really liked this new little salon about two seconds from my house and also it was only $12.95.
(That ominous music is the sound of my cheapness coming to stab me in the back).
I decided I’d give it a shot because a) personal recommendation, b) regular stylist busy with a three week old baby and c) cheap! (Did I mention cheap?).
I took in this picture to give the stylist an idea of what I was going for. She suggested going slightly shorter with the bangs just so they weren’t quite so “in your eyes” which sounded reasonable to me.
She turned the chair around so I was facing away from the mirror and got to work (this should have been a hint – if she won’t let you watch her cut your hair, maybe this would be an excellent time to fake appendicitis and flee).
And then, when she turned the chair back toward the mirror, ten minutes later, I had the sneaking suspicion my bangs weren’t exactly even.
This suspicion was confirmed when she spent five minutes fussing with them and finally said (AND I QUOTE WITH ABSOLUTELY NO EXAGGERATION), “Well, if you flat iron this side and curl the other half, they should be even.”
. . . .
Yes. She really said that.
And then, like the enormous pushover that I am, I said it all looked fine, paid (I even tipped her a couple bucks. I am such an idiot) and went on my way.
My bangs on one side were WAY too short. I cried and made friends with my bobby pins.
I wrote an honest (read: brutal) review on Yelp and wished that would make my hair grow faster.
Even Bart, who generally is extremely careful about making haircut comments admitted that it looked pretty lousy.
(Later in the evening, Bart asked me, “Did the woman who cut your hair have short hair?” I told him she did. “Did she have weird hair?” I admitted that, actually, yes, she did. “Did she dress nicely or was she kind of a slob or dumpy?” And once again, I had to agree that, in fact, he’d just perfectly described the woman who cut my hair.
“You . . . might want to keep an eye on that kind of thing next time you get your hair cut,” he advised).
The next day at church, I saw the husband of my regular stylist and he mentioned that, while she wasn’t up to a full schedule again, she was doing a few cuts here and there and would have certainly squeezed me in if I’d called. I resisted the urge to collapse on the floor in sobs.
Then he suggested that I go get a refund.
And you know what? I did. I felt a little better.
Now it’s been three weeks and while if you look closely you can tell how uneven and poorly cut my hair is, it’s not so bad you’d notice right off the bat.