Tuesday, July 04, 2006


I almost never get my hair cut. I tend to push that to the back burner, and have to have been pretty frustrated with my hair for at least a few weeks before I will ignore all urges to the contrary and actually go in for a cut. Mainly because of a horrendous haircut I received about 17 years ago.

This is cheap, and frees up some time, but it makes it hard to establish a relationship with a stylist. I'm that-woman-I-see-every-three-months-for-a-quick-cut-and-eyebrow-waxing.

I have found 2 great stylists here in the Happy Boondocks. One is quite expensive, and her son spends his free time beating the tar out of Son #1. So, not a great option, even though she is a genius with scissors.

The other is affordable, and baggage-free, but SHE QUIT. She no longer works at the Hair Cuttery. I don't know where to find her. Like I said, if I did this more often she would have told me to follow her, but since I hardly ever show up I am stuck.

So, yesterday I went back to the Cuttery, mainly because they have a photo on display these days of a haircut I have always wanted. In fact, in the weeks before we moved to Thailand, I went to a very expensive salon in an attempt to get this very cut...and the hilarious failure that ensued is fodder for a piece I am going to write and sell, so I'm not putting it up here. Suffice it to say I got a radically different 'do, and was mortified.

Yesterday, I also got something far from the photo fantasy cut. I keep running my hand over my hair and saying "whoa, this is not what I'd planned at all."

Two observations:

Firstly, it helps to have a Buddha-like detachment from my appearance. I KNEW, going in, that even if she cut my hair exactly the way I wanted, I would not be transformed into some fabulous-looking glamor queen. I was aiming just for "nice haircut, Frumpzilla". Pretty low standards, right there. So I have discovered that low standards is a one-way ticket to Dontgiveafuckville. The haircut I got is actually very similar to the one, 17 years ago, that made me cry, and I can't rouse myself past mild amusement. The joys of being nearly forty and grossly overweight, folks...not great on a daily basis, but good for mental health.

Secondly, I need to quiz my new stylists. Just because she owns a pair of scissors, doesn't mean she understands that curly hair looks longer wet than it does dry. Forget assuming a professional knows her stuff. Be rude, and let her know.

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