I had pondered my hairstyle for some time and then one day decided I needed something fresh. I wanted to toss my classic shoulder-length locks for something fun and more modern. A little edgier and sexier, perhaps. I chose a famous Meg Ryan look and decided my hair would probably fall into the cut naturally without too much effort.
I headed to my hairdresser of six years, armed with the photo in tow of how I wanted to be transformed, and we embarked on a discussion of the look. Yes, I was assured, the cut would be fantastic for my hair type and it would give me a more current, fashionable look.
Scissors in hand, she went to work. She kept my back to the mirror the whole time so that I wouldn't grab a sneak peek at her work...the move that I'm known for in the salon. As she went about snipping and razoring, I anticipated the reflection of the new and improved me and could hardly contain myself. I was ready for the change.
Finally, she finished and I had endured the 3 hour process: condition treatment, highlights, cut. She wheeled me around slowly so that I could face the mirror and ooh and aaahh over the new me.
Instead, I let out a small yelp as I brought my hand over my mouth to squelch any more noise from coming out.
Horrified. Aghast.
Somehow I managed to collect myself in an instant so that I wouldn't garner any more attention. I needed to get out of there fast before I broke down crying and/or started yelling at my stylist for the disaster that now sat atop my head.
I can't remember the exact words or gestures that I used past that point but I made my way to the car ultra fast and slumped into my seat. I turned on the ignition, fastened my seat belt in a blur of angst and looked in the rear view mirror to make sure it was true. My hair really was not the edgy cut that I anticipated but was a semi-half-mullet throwback from the '80s. My mood neared frantic frenzy as I made my way home in a fit of tears.
*** *** *** ***
It's been almost a week since that day and many times I have debated cutting it shorter. I have played the scenario in my head; perhaps even walking into another salon to ask, "Can You Even This Out?"
But, for fear of a repeat performance, I have chosen not to.
Grow, hair, grow.
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