Well, I did it. I sucked it up and grew some cajones and went to the hair appointment. It is an event, really! If you have ever spent any time growing your hair or have an extra X chromosome then you will immediately understand. If you have let your hair grow any length of time or experienced a bad haircut you will immediately comprehend my trepidation and worry and also? Why I booked the appointment a month ago, after considering it since February and lamenting the possible demise of the hair. The dream of the bad mullet? Well, okay, maybe I obsess a little too much?And if you cannot understand? Oh well, I have an unnatural emotional attachment to the dead stuff that grows out of my scalp like a bad weed, okay? It is definitely a vanity thing. It might be for you as well, if you did some soul searching and ADMITTED IT!
At any rate, there you have it. I went. I actually gave Larry-the-straight-stylist permission to whack off a full six inches. The same Larry, who three months ago upon meeting him and asking him if we had met previously informed me that he was the owner of the salon next door and could-it-have-possibly-been-there-turn-around-and-let-me-see-your-hair-oh-obviously-not-but-honey-you-should-come-see-me-Larry. When I called him a cocksucker for that comment he laughed and informed me that he defied that stereotype and was one of the few straight salon owners and we parted ways. Why, oh why would I let him touch my hair after that you ask? Well, you see, here is the thing. After about three days or righteous indignation and 'Can you believe the gall? the audacity? the nerve?', I realized that maybe he was onto something and kind of admired the fact that he was ballsy enough to call me out on it. So? I marched my happy ass into his salon and told him that he was now responsible for making it right. And there ya have it.
Yesterday evening at 5:30 I went to see Larry. Initially, as I walked in (the proverbial gunfight theme music playing in my head as we eyed each other and circled) I was nervous. He looked at me and grinned and threw down the gauntlet. "Okay, now lets see if I know what I am talking about, shall we?" So I did. I told him I would prefer the end result to be about bra-strap length and he smiled. And I let him do his thing. He cut, deep-conditioned and glazed the curls as we chatted and he was entertaining. Upon listening to him I realized that he was very obviously a new Yorker and therefore could let go of my still slightly wounded psyche due to his insulting me, after all, hello...New York! Everybody knows they just say whatever comes to mind. It is part of their charm! Also? It was said at the grand opening of the neighborhood cigar lounge and he had admittedly imbibed in a few cocktails.
An hour and a half and about three pounds of hair later I looked in the mirror and proclaimed that it was pretty short. He cocked an eyebrow and shot back with "Yes, Rapunzel, it is short. your husband can no longer climb up your hair to the second story." I conceded that round to Larry and admitted that it does look better.
The Leester then met me and upon grabbing my hair and rifling his fingers through it (which, by the way, I HATE when people touch my hair! And he KNOWS this and does it to bug me)asked "Deep conditioned, huh? Glazed, huh? Cut, huh?" I gave him 'the look' (for touching my hair, duh) and replied "Yes, what do you think?" He shrugged and informed me that he couldn't tell the difference. Gee thanks hon.
The ass.
I don't know how it is that he cant see the difference, I sure can. There is the proof. Granted, I have slept on it and am still in my pyjamas, but six inches is six inches. And not like the six inches that men are always lying about, either. So there.
At any rate, there you have it. I went. I actually gave Larry-the-straight-stylist permission to whack off a full six inches. The same Larry, who three months ago upon meeting him and asking him if we had met previously informed me that he was the owner of the salon next door and could-it-have-possibly-been-there-turn-around-and-let-me-see-your-hair-oh-obviously-not-but-honey-you-should-come-see-me-Larry. When I called him a cocksucker for that comment he laughed and informed me that he defied that stereotype and was one of the few straight salon owners and we parted ways. Why, oh why would I let him touch my hair after that you ask? Well, you see, here is the thing. After about three days or righteous indignation and 'Can you believe the gall? the audacity? the nerve?', I realized that maybe he was onto something and kind of admired the fact that he was ballsy enough to call me out on it. So? I marched my happy ass into his salon and told him that he was now responsible for making it right. And there ya have it.
Yesterday evening at 5:30 I went to see Larry. Initially, as I walked in (the proverbial gunfight theme music playing in my head as we eyed each other and circled) I was nervous. He looked at me and grinned and threw down the gauntlet. "Okay, now lets see if I know what I am talking about, shall we?" So I did. I told him I would prefer the end result to be about bra-strap length and he smiled. And I let him do his thing. He cut, deep-conditioned and glazed the curls as we chatted and he was entertaining. Upon listening to him I realized that he was very obviously a new Yorker and therefore could let go of my still slightly wounded psyche due to his insulting me, after all, hello...New York! Everybody knows they just say whatever comes to mind. It is part of their charm! Also? It was said at the grand opening of the neighborhood cigar lounge and he had admittedly imbibed in a few cocktails.
An hour and a half and about three pounds of hair later I looked in the mirror and proclaimed that it was pretty short. He cocked an eyebrow and shot back with "Yes, Rapunzel, it is short. your husband can no longer climb up your hair to the second story." I conceded that round to Larry and admitted that it does look better.
The Leester then met me and upon grabbing my hair and rifling his fingers through it (which, by the way, I HATE when people touch my hair! And he KNOWS this and does it to bug me)asked "Deep conditioned, huh? Glazed, huh? Cut, huh?" I gave him 'the look' (for touching my hair, duh) and replied "Yes, what do you think?" He shrugged and informed me that he couldn't tell the difference. Gee thanks hon.
The ass.
I don't know how it is that he cant see the difference, I sure can. There is the proof. Granted, I have slept on it and am still in my pyjamas, but six inches is six inches. And not like the six inches that men are always lying about, either. So there.
7 Comments:
THIS is IT???the only picture??you. my. friend. are a stupid stupid stupid head(mom might read this you know)you cut off that much of your hair & you rip us off with that picture!fag!i think i may officially boycott you and your stupid blog you stupid head. PS find a better name for me than gargamel.
A name other than Gargamel...hmmmn. Oh, I know! How about bitchface?! hahahaha..Im so funny! I kill me!
Love you lilsis!
hahahahah...COW
hahaha...you are so lucky our parents read this blog. Hurry up and send me pictures of the cutest little person on the planet, please?
.oO(bitchface)
I can see the difference in the ends. It looks lots better - less fuzzy.
I'm due for a cut, and actually, I'm making my appointment right now! (I too have fuzzy ends even though my hair is straight).
Tease. Love the color though!
You have great hair!
I still need to go. I'm such a slacker!
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