So, apparently when you reach your thirties, hairstylists automatically assume you want a Mom cut. No questions asked, your long-lock days are over.
A few months ago, I went on a double date with two celebrities (not sure how that became my life but I’ll write about that later). I asked the blonde starlet where she gets her hair done because it was less stalky-sounding than, “You’re gorgeous. How can I look exactly like you?” and she told me about her Guy in Beverly Hills and said he gives her a great deal. I called and of course, wasn’t able to wrangle the, “I’m a Hollywood ingénue so I get everything for free” price – but it still wasn’t bad.
And hey, I was on my way to looking fabulous. I’m totally worth it! (Even though I’m unemployed and might not actually be worth it.) The stylist was Italian – so Italian in fact, that I had no idea anything he was saying. Probably not good to trust a man with razor scissors and a language barrier to have complete control over your looks… but I figured she wouldn’t have recommended him if I wasn’t in safe hands.
Now I’m used to schlepping into my normal Orange County salon with tangled bedhead and no make-up, knowing my hairdresser realizes that underneath that wildly unkempt exterior, I was one good wash-and-blow-dry away from being attractive again.
Apparently I shouldn’t have put so much pressure on this Italian to recognize such things. Because I’m fairly sure he thought a homeless lady just sat in his chair. He was asking me lots of getting-to-know-you questions and I had no idea what he was saying so after a series of me saying, “What?… I’m sorry?…(laughs uncomfortably),” I just stopped trying and buried myself in US Magazine: “Ooh, Kim Kardashian caught cheating?! Scandal! Tell me more!”
He seemed to be in the groove… and who was I to stand in the way of Art? At one point, he asks me if I liked movement and I nod, “Sure, I like traveling…?” Which is the moment he chopped off all my hair and said, “See?! Movement!”
Twelve inches – an entire foot – fell to the floor. Taking my youth, my sexuality, and the mask for my emerging double chin with it. Oh fuck. My boyfriend was gonna love this. It now brushed just above my shoulders with this infuriatingly peppy curl out… I smiled politely and internally shrugged … well, I didn’t love it but it would grow back. And when I saw my boyfriend that night, he seemed on board to love me through my bad haircut. As the months wore on and everyone SWORE they loved my haircut, I couldn’t get that damn weird peppy wing to go away. Everywhere I went, my hair looked like it was in this eternally optimistic mood. Stop fucking curling out! I am not chipper! I’m introspective and mysterious! This was now forever memorialized in my brother’s wedding photos.
And as I was sitting next to my two blonde friends, they took an Instagram of us. As we all peered at the results, one nonchalantly points out that I’m a brunette now. I’d noticed it was darker but… Holy S – G! D! F!. How had I gone two months not noticing I was no longer even blonde?!
It’s not like I was dark brown, that obviously would have been Obvious. I was – as my original hairstylist, Michael, would describe me (when I went crawling back to him last week), a mousey brown. He said, “Not like there’s anything wrong with that. If you wanna be a newscastor.” Apparently, Gregory the Italian thought now that I’m old, I should look just like Barbara Walters.
So, as I sat in Michael’s chair, I had him reset me back to normal. I don’t care how old I am, I’m clinging to my mother-(cut)-f-ing youth as long as I can. And I’ll tell you one thing – I’m never trusting a Hollywood Ingénue with my looks again. Those bitches will lay you out to dry every time.