I am what you might call “attached” to my hair.
And I mean that in every sense of the word. I love my hair when I don’t hate it, obviously, because I am a girl and I do that thing that almost every girl does where I hate on my hair for absolutely no reason other than it isn’t something different. All that said, I take my hair *pretty seriously* and I’m quite particular about who touches it. So you can imagine my dismay to get a call that my stylist had left the salon and a new stylist was taking care of her clients.
So I asked, straight up, if this stylist was a novice. She wasn’t. So then, I Google-searched the shit out of her, discovered she went to school with some of my friends, talked to them, found out she was a good stylist and then realized that I am nothing shy of a psychopath-stalker. Ahem. I knew *exactly* what I wanted done to my hair, I had photos, it was going to be beautiful.
The stylist was running almost 20 minutes behind schedule as she finished up a cut-colour and I breathed an enormous sigh of relief when I saw a gorgeous head of hair sauntering up to the cash. This girl is good, I thought until I didn’t anymore. I asked her not to shampoo so I wouldn’t feel any reason to not work out (I don’t like messing up pretty hair), so she spritzed me down, trimmed the length and I told her I wanted her to finish the cut dry. Because it’s my hair. Also: I am a psychopath.
I don’t know how my brain fooled me into thinking that my hair was OK — much less nice… I think I even said “perfect” — but I’m beginning to realize it’s a stage of grief called “denial.” I got in my car, texted Mr Hockey Coach and said “I hate my hair,” but the truth is I had nooooooooooooooooooo idea the disaster that was my head.
There was an fucking rat tail, you guys. A RAT TAIL. RATTAIL. R.A.T.T.A.I.L. (Are you understanding the seriousness of this? ITWASONMYGODDAMNHEAD!)
Then there was this:
In case you can’t tell, ONE SIDE IS ALMOST AN INCH LONGER THAN THE OTHER. The back of my hair was totally lopsided. So, then, I did what any self-respecting, hair-obsessed, psychopath would do and I went on a search for my kitchen scissors. If I can colour at home and wax my own legs and shoot laser beams at my bikini line from the comfort of my bed, then dammit I can cut my own hair too. Even the back. Which I can’t see.
It took an hour of teary-eyed snipping with an enormous pair of kitchen shears but I managed to even it up to an “asymmetrical but it looks like it’s on purpose” bob and will likely never recover from the shock and despair that was realizing my hair was ruined.
A smarter woman would have called the salon and demanded it be fixed — and probably her money back — but because of the whole friend of a friend bologna, I decided to take it into my own (apparently quite capable) hands. I sort of wish I'd photographed the rat tail, but the image of it will forever be burned onto my mind's eye and will likely cause nightmare so I probably did you all a favour.
Once the short side grows long enough to touch my shoulders, I’ll go and have it all fixed. But before that, I’ll probably try to go blonder at home and maybe I’ll see you here again soon. Cripes. (Also — I think I need to Windex my mirror after seeing these photos. Oops)
I used to think that a haircut was cheaper than therapy but I dunno any more you guys.
Now, spill it: what’s YOUR worst hair story?