A day in the life of a bad haircut

When you have been given a bad haircut every day is filled with unwanted, unwelcome stress that emphasizes how shallow you are for feeling this amount of stress over something as inconsequential as a hairdo.  Then you are stressed about how shallow you are.

First of all, there is no more waking up looking adorable and slightly tossled.  You wake up looking like someone spent the previous eight hours sliding your head through a mangle.  Also there is no wondering if you can go one more day without a hairwash because this is what you look like when you wake up.

So you take the shower you didn't want to take, and you put in extra conditioner to discourage your hair from getting any of its own ideas.  You want it as limp and lifeless as possible because the above picture is what your hair looks like with life and vigor now.

You get out of the shower and prepare yourself for spending a ridiculous amount of time on your hair when you'd normally spend about three minutes on it.  First you have to decide how much product to use.  Too much and you will have to rewash and start over, not enough and your hair will revert to the original "fat bird with teeny wings" style it had when you walked out of the "salon."

After about twenty minutes of hairstyling that only takes you from looking like a mental patient to looking like you cut your own hair with a dull knife (mentally outpatient), you are ready to face the day.  You have pasted down the teeny wings that want to flare, you have tamed the hair on your cowlick in such a way that you can only hope it won't silently stick up like a  flag in an hour, and you have fought the top part that only wants to be in the shape of a cone.  Time for work!

You go to work and even though you've had this horrible cut for several days now, people still look at you with wonder and pity like you just walked away from a terrible car accident.  Several people say, "You got a haircut!" to which you can only say, "Yes, I did.  Thank you?"  Your students say, "I liked your hair better before."  And you agree.  Then they say, "Then why did you get it cut?" to which you have no answer.

You stop in the bathroom for a mid-morning pee break and glance into the mirror to discover that your hair has somehow, without you even knowing it, transformed itself and now you look just like Dwight Schrute.

You wonder how long you've been walking around like that and wish that someone would have said something, but at the same time you're thankful nobody said anything.  You frantically fingercomb the hair back into some semblance of a purposeful hairdo and go back to work.

The day goes on and on with many more "You got a haircut!" comments and bathroom breaks to see how ridiculous you look.  Finally, you can go home and relax.  You stop worrying about your hair for awhile and just let it do what it needs to do.  When you go to the bathroom to brush your teeth before bed, this is what you see:

And you remember fondly the old days when your hair was glorious enough to earn you the name "Lord Farquad" by a couple of jealous sisters.  You think that the stylist must have had some style in mind that was so good it was worth not listening to a word you said and giving you this cut instead.  "I just haven't figured out how to fix it right," you tell yourself.  "Tomorrow I will figure it out."  Then you go to bed sure that it will grow quickly and soon you'll be the ugly duckling no more!  Then you wake up to another morning and it's like it's Groundhog Day all over again.

Be careful what you wish for...

Well don't you all just loooooooove the idea of me sending my sister who is in Afghanistan a picture of myself with the worst haircut ever given to anyone who has had haircuts.  I have spent most of the past four days trying my hardest to keep my head from looking like a fat bird, but last night I stopped the constant smoothing for a while and then took some pictures of myself for my sister and I SENT THEM TO HER.  Are you all happy now?  I did that for my own personal troop.  What are you doing for your troop?  Don't have a troop?  You can share mine.  She says she loves getting mail over there so send her something.  Some magazines, or some gum, or some cookies, some holiday decorations, or some pictures of YOU with a bad haircut.  Her address is:

LCDR Amy Lindahl

PRT URUZGAN

FOB Tarin Kowt

APO AE 09380

Send her something, Smarties. Now I know you are all dying to see my crazy awful bird hair so I am going to post it, but this is not for you, dear reader, this is also for my troop because nothing makes a sister happier than when another sister looks silly, right Amy?  Right, Beth?  Right sisters all over the world?  (And also because Amy has a blog and I wanted to scoop her on this hot story.)

There must be some magical under-cutting on the sides that I can't find because without constant management those wings want to fly.

Side view.  There is nothing in the back to support those wings.  And nothing on the top to hold them down.  Just fluffy feathers.

This is just for Amy and Beth.  A gross, lipless, multi-chinned oversmile.  You're welcome.

Decision 2012

This is a Facebook chat between my sister and me this morning:

Amy: I DO have a package to send you....since I didn't get you a b-day present....

Me: Is it a blue burka?

Amy: I got Sid and Mills some 'jewels' at the bazaar last weekend. And no, it's not a blue burka. You're NOT getting a blue burka. Those are creepy.

Me: But that's what I want!!! I got a horrific haircut on Saturday. I've never wished more for a blue burka.

Amy: I want to see a picture. And I'll see what I can do....there's certainly enough of them around here. Geez.

Me: No pictures. Just imagine a fluffy fat bird with teeny little wings. That's my hair.

Amy: HA HA! PICTURE!! Come on....your followers would LOVE it!!

Me: No. It's too horrible. That's why I need a burka.

Amy: NO you don't! What does Kira say about it?

Me: I would wear the burka and say it is in protest of the taliban, but really I'd just be waiting for my horrid haircut to grow out. Kira calls me "Sir."

Amy: HA HA HA HA HA!! I'm going to tell her to take a picture and send it to me....

Me: No.

Amy: Come on, that would be a GREAT Christmas present!! Framed, please.

Me: I will send you one of my school pictures.

Amy: No, I've already seen that.

Me: But it's a professional portrait!

Amy: Sarah, I'm in AFGHANISTAN. Don't you want to lift my spirits? I won't be able to Afghanistand it if you don't....

Me: Oh.... My .... God.... That was horrible.

So, should I throw vanity and self-respect to the wind and send her a picture of my horrific hairdo? Or do I say tough shit, I will not sacrifice my dignity for the cause of troop morale and just send her some gum instead? You, my readers, get to decide. Vote in the comments...

Person of Walmart

About a month ago I got my 150,000,000th bad haircut.  Like many in the past, it was almost right, but not quite.  I had to come home and hack off a couple pieces to make it better which seems so stupid, but it simply has to be done.  Of course, I didn't do a very good job because it's hard to cut the hair on the back of your own head.

So today while I was out and about, I thought I'd stop in somewhere and just get the back part shaped up a little.  I got in right away and told the cute girl that I just wanted the back fixed where I cut it because it wasn't very neat.  We talked for a long time about what I am looking for in a haircut and I thought she got me.  I told her I liked the sides and top, but the bottom of the back needed to be fixed.  She took my glasses and assured me that she was doing what I was asking.  It even felt like she was doing what I was asking.  I'm no stranger to cutting my own hair so I knew what I wanted, I just needed someone to do it that could actually see what they are doing.

Like the optimist I am, while she was cutting I thought maybe she was the one.  The girl who would be my haircutter for the rest of my life.  The girl who I would be so loyal to that when she got promoted to a super-fancy salon that charges 80 dollars a cut, I'd still go to her because it would be worth it.  She seemed so happy with her work, and genuinely excited about what a good job she'd done and how good I looked that I was excited too when she turned me toward the mirror and handed me my glasses.

I looked in the mirror and could hardly keep from crying.  It is the worst haircut I have ever gotten, IN MY LIFE.  Yes, worse than the crop-topped poodle cut I got in seventh grade when I asked to look like Stephanie Powers.  Worse than all the cut-THEN-perms I stupidly got.  Worse than all of it put together.  I am at a loss for what to do about it because there is no way in hell I'm going in to have someone else cut MORE and try to fix it.  And I don't even know where I would start if I try to fix it myself.

How to describe it... hmmm.  It's like she heard that I didn't want the sides touched, but then totally stopped hearing me so she gave me a supershort "mom-cut" but left the long sides.  Like a Hasidic Jew.

Like this. (NOT the woman)

It's like I have three different ugly haircuts all morphed together onto one head.  It's horrifying.  It's a pixie cut with long chunks on the sides.  When will I meet her, the one who will get that I don't want to look like Velma or Peggy Hill or an Orthodox Rabbi?  The one who will laugh with me about all the shitty haircuts I've ever gotten and will never give me a bad haircut again in my life?  I found a husband.  I even found a dentist, but still the hair stylist eludes me.

When I was in the car on the way home I called Mitch and told him how upset I was because of this, sort of giving him a heads up so he wouldn't laugh at me as soon as he saw me or say something like, "What the hell have you done?"  He was appropriately sympathetic until he said, "Where did you get it?" and I said, "Walmart."  Then he laughed and laughed and said, "What did you expect?!"  I guess now we know where the "People of Walmart" get their hair done.  Honestly, I only wanted two or three quick snips to fix the back and since I was there anyway to pick up a prescription, I thought Walmart could handle that.  Nope.  I am now, and for the next several months until this can grow out, a Person of Walmart.

This lady has better hair than me.  

I'm Fancy

I gave in and  I finally got a professional haircut.  The other day I got a glimpse of myself in a mirror after walking around at work for about 6 hours, seeing just about every person I've ever met in the last ten years;  and it was like I had two completely different haircuts. The back was one and the sides were another.  The sides were frizzed out all on their own like clown hair.  It was ridiculous and it took all the willpower I have in my body to wait one day to get a haircut instead of just hacking it off in my bathroom.  I was flying a little too close to the sun when I cut bangs and it didn't turn out to be a total disaster.  I thought I shouldn't push my luck.

So I went to a real salon, not even a Cost Cutters or a Great Clips.  The kind of place that is so fancy that they have hair washing sinks and they actually use them.  The kind of place where a hair wash and a head massage are standard instead of being unceremoniously squirted with a spray bottle full of cold water.  I got assigned a young woman who looked like she knew what she was doing, she looked like she had some style.  Not that I'd care.  Getting my hair cut by someone who can see the back of my head is luxury enough.

She brought me back for the hair wash/head massage, and while I was lying there enjoying it she said, "Do you want an eyebrow wax today too?"  HINT HINT.  I smiled and tried not to laugh and said no thank you.  Then she sat me down in the chair and asked what I wanted.  I said, "I've been known to hack a chunk off here and there and layers are hard to do when I can't see the back of my head, heh heh," hoping to break the ice and admit what I've done to myself in a funny, self-deprecating way, and have her say something like, "Wow, you did a really good job!" But instead I got no reaction at all.  She started cutting.  She did a great job and when she asked if I liked it, I said I did and asked if the layers had been a total mess.  She said, "I had to take a lot off this side, but hardly any off this side.  It was really uneven, and the sides were ... weird.  Hair cutting isn't as easy as some people [you] might think."  Then she proceeded with the standard blowdry and style.  When she finished she turned my chair around and I looked exactly like this:

It was poofed up so high I looked just like Peggy Hill.  She said, "Do you like it?" and I said, "Poofy."  I paid and then immediately found the nearest bathroom and wet it down as much as I could so I didn't look like a sixty-year-old politician's wife at a formal ball.  Now that it's unpoofed, I really like it.  Maybe I'll stop cutting it myself.  Maybe.

Poor decisions that turn out okay keep you from ever learning your lesson: UPDATED!

You know how you get to be a certain age (over 40) and know better than to do some stupid things that seem like a good idea at the time?  Like calling old boyfriends when you have been drinking, or overpacking for a trip, or cutting your hair when you've stayed up too late and are overtired and have just looked at some very unflattering pictures of yourself?  You know how those things are bad ideas?  Well, thankfully I have never done the first one.  Although I have called people who were not YET my boyfriend after I'd been drinking.  It just goes to show that I am charming, charming, charming! even (especially) after I've had a few.  That was years ago though.  Why are we talking about drunk-dialing old and/or future boyfriends?  I don't know.  The last thing: cutting hair in an over-tired state, I've done that plenty of times before.  And I did it again last night.  I was looking at this picture of myself:



(Sometimes I look a lot like Nick Cage)


And I thought, it's time to face facts, I cannot pull off the bare forehead.  I look like Frasier if Frasier had long stringy hair, which he doesn't, therefore I look worse than Frasier. 

So when I was rushing around, getting ready for bed, stressing because I wanted to get some sleep because I had to work at the crack of dawn, I looked at my hair in the bathroom mirror and I thought, "I should cut some bangs."  Actually, here is my entire inner dialogue:

Me:  I should cut some bangs.

Me: Just finish brushing your teeth and go to bed already.

Me:  No. It won't take long.  And I'll look way better.

Me:  No, you won't.  Haven't you learned that late-night hair cutting is NEVER a good idea?

Me:  No.

Me:  You are an idiot.  Hey, why are you getting the scissors?  Go to BED!

Me:  This will only take a second.

Me:  You are going to regret this. 

Me:  No I won't.  I'll look cute.
Me:  No, you won't.  You'll look like you cut your own hair in the middle of the night.
Me:  I look that way all the time anyway.
Me:  That's because it's the only time you ever get haircuts.  Leave it to a professional!
Me:  No.  I can do it.
Me:  PLEASE, just go to bed.
Me:  Here goes!  (snip snip)
Me:  Great.  You did it.  Tomorrow I will tell you "I told you so."
Me:  I think after a fresh washing and blow-drying, it will look good.
Me:  I'm pretty sure it won't. 
Me:  Sure it will.  These choppy chunks will blend right in.
Me:  No they won't.  WHAT ARE YOU DOING!  PUT THE SCISSORS DOWN AND GO TO BED!
Me:  I think I can blend these choppy parts.
Me:  By cutting it more?  STOP!
Me:  I should.  I can't though.  Man, these scissors are dull!  I don't know what's wrong with me.  Help me.
Me:  I give up.  I'm not talking to you anymore.

Me:  Okay, I'll stop.  Goodnight.

And I got up this morning and rolled out of bed, tired from being up so late, and totally forgot about my late-night major-hair-decision.  I washed, dried and I LOOK SO CUTE!  What do you know, late night self-inflicted impulse-haircuts are a good idea! 



Me, this morning.  Bangs are a miracle!



Update:  Okay, that last picture really isn't me.  It is Keara Knightly.  Honest mistake.  One of my loyal readers wanted to see an actual "after" picture of me.  Sorry, but all my pictures are "before" pictures.  I'm still waiting for the day I can call myself an "after."  So anyway, I took some pictures of my new bangs.  Here, have a look:

BEFORE Before:

AFTER Before:

Acorn

Last month my hair was longish, and straggly and driving me nuts, so I cut it myself.  Oh yeah, sometimes I cut my own hair.  I admit it.  I figure I can admit that now that I've owned up to being a redneck.  The reason I started doing it was because when I go to a professional (Brandi at Costcutters), I give her (Brandi) an exhaustive explanation of exactly how I want it cut and while I'm telling her I can practically see her eyes glaze over while she thinks about absolutely anything else, but probably how to best accessorize her new neck tattoo. Then she cuts my hair into the same ugly cut that every single beautician has ever cut my hair into.  There must be something about me that tells people I would look good with this cut:

I don't.  So after I come home I usually end up cutting it myself anyway to fix it so I don't look like such a fool.  Then one day it struck me, why not skip the middle man and save myself seven bucks? (what?)  So anyway, last month I gave myself perhaps the cutest haircut I've ever had.  I was so proud and so adorable.  Yesterday I looked in the mirror and thought that I could use a little trim and was still feeling a little cocky about what a good job I did last time, so I got the scissors out and got down to business.  I felt like I was doing a very good job and it was cute when it was wet, but when it's dry I look like an acorn. Oh well.  When you cut your own hair, you're bound to do a bad job most of the time.  You learn to accept that fact, and then you start wondering what Brandi at Costcutters has been up to.

Then last night I asked Sam to light the grill for me.  I heard him pushing the igniter over and over so I yelled for him to STOP and went out to see what was going on.  He wasn't pushing the igniter hard enough, but I didn't know that when I pushed it and a gigantic fireball encased my head.  Sam was totally freaked out at seeing a grill explode on his mother but I was totally fine. It was scary, but it didn't hurt at all and it was over in a split second. (that's what she said! that's what she said!) No damage done!  Except my acorn hair.  As if it wasn't bad enough already, now the part where my bangs would be if I had bangs is singed and looks like the hair of an old Barbie Doll.

Pretty.  Oh well.  My total lack of eyebrows will hopefully distract people from my old Barbie/acorn hair.

Just kidding.  It would take a nuclear explosion to burn my eyebrows off.  In fact, after the apocalypse all that will be left living on earth will be cockroaches and my eyebrows.

Jinkies!

I got my haircut today and no matter what I tell any haircutter I've been to for the past ten years, they always cut my hair to look like this:

It's like it's a big inside joke between all hair cutters.  "No matter what she says, make her look like Velma!  It will be so funny!"  Now I have to try to fix it and it will look better than it does now, but not so good overall.  I don't think I have ever in my entire life had a good haircut.  I remember when I was in seventh grade and wanted to trade in my long hair that I wore in a french braid everyday for a really cool Farrah Fawcett/Stephanie Powers hairdo.

Something between this:

and this:

But I got this:

It's like I was saying "Farrah Fawcett" and they were hearing "tight perm in a mullet."  I think of all the bad pictures of me ever taken, which is about 93% of the pictures ever taken of me, this has to be in the top 10.

From that bad haircut, I tried and tried to grow my mullet out into something Stephanie Powers-y and I was having no luck.  My mom would give me perms and no matter how much I BEGGED her to use bigger rollers, she always used the ones that were the circumference of a pencil.  TIGHT.

Aw.  The mullet is a little longer, but still pretty tightly curled.  Looks like I forgot it was picture day that year and only wore a polo shirt instead of plastic beads and a furry sweater.  I bet that really chapped my ass.

This is high school.  I think tenth grade.  LOOK AT THOSE EYEBROWS!  The mullet is a little less mullet-y, but the perm is still tight.  I remember I liked getting a good point on the top.  This was a good hair day.  Kind of a baby Stephanie Powers.

Oh, finally, the mullet is gone.  The sides are the same length as the back.  The perm isn't too curly.  But it's still no Farrah Fawcett. 

After high school I let the perms go and embraced my stringy, thin, stick-straight hair.  I still had bad haircuts.  I remember one that I kind of liked and kept for a long time but then I learned that my sisters were calling me Lord Farquaad behind my back.  And in front of my face. 

I just figured something out.  "Lord Farquaad" sounds an awful lot like "Lord Fuckwad."  Do you think they meant to do that?  Holy cow, what else have I missed in Shrek? 

Lastly, I found something the other day that I really like.  If I was Oprah this thing would be on the episode "My Favorite Things!"  Here it is:

 SALT AND PEPPER SHAAAKKKKEEEERRRRRSSSSSS!!!!!!  Everybody gets one!!!!*






*just kidding