Took Off a Good Foot

I woke up this morning and decided: haircut. I looked online for places that were open on a Sunday, then started calling at 10 a.m. when they all opened for business. I found one place that had a last minute cancellation for noon, so I boogied on over after a quick shower.

I found Vine Street Salon pretty easily since it is just off Shattuck. I arrived early and stopped into Peet’s for a double macchiato. I looked for the Cheeseboard but couldn’t find it, but I did find the Juicebar Collective, which sadly, was closed. Damn commies.

So, instead I just went into the salon early to look at books and magazines, since I had no idea what kind of haircut I wanted. Typically when I go in I ask for “like this, but shorter,” and always just end up with a trim. I felt I needed a change; something with shape. I found two styles I liked in style books while I waited, both sort of shortish and piecy with long, side-swept bangs. This, I decided, was what I wanted. I consulted with Ingrid, my red-haired new stylist and off we went to the sink. After a quick rinse and condition we talked about “shorter in the back, longer in the front–nothing drastic or too “graphic.” This, with the long, to-the-side bangs, I thought would look nice with my hair’s natural wave.

Ingrid started cutting my hair from the back forward. Actually, no, she cut pretty much straight across to take off some length, but after that started in on shaping the style. Her scissors made huge, gouging cuts to the back of my long hair. I thought I might throw up for a second. She cut at a quick clip, and I could tell my hair was about two to three inches long in the back. I felt a hotness run over me, and I suddenly didn’t feel so well. What the fuck just happened to my hair?

I was suddenly transported back to that fateful day in 6th grade. My mom took me to the salon for a cut. I thought I might want to get it a bit shorter for the summer. Mom agreed. Off we went to Debbie, her stylist, and after a relaxing scrub at the sink and the plastic front-cape, the scissors were raised.

“Shorter?,” asked Debbie. I nodded. “Short on the sides?,” she quizzed us.

I paused. Short on the sides? What would that look like, I asked myself. But before I could even imagine it my mother said yes, and before I knew it I had a mullet. Sorta. Kinda. Close enough; I hated that horrid haircut. And it took me a good two years to grow it out. Most of middle school, and you know this is a very viable time to have a goofy-ass haircut.

Anyway, as soon as Ingrid started hacking away at my hair in the back– I mean, really cutting it short–I thought I might pass out. Call me shallow, but those years in middle school came flooding back in waves. Sharp, painful ones. All I knew was that it would take a while to correct this mistake.

Then something happened. I opened my eyes, and she’d pulled the front down from the clips, and while it was short, it didn’t look bad at all. In fact, I kinda liked it. I’d never have gone that short on my own, but–despite not being what I asked for–it is a nice, new change of pace after spending 90% of my life with long locks.

Isn’t it funny how much a haircut can change the way you look? And is it any wonder women are so loyal to those who turn hair into flattering, flouncy looks they never even knew they wanted? Maybe it is shallow to devote a whole blog post to haircuts, but of all the things that influence the way we look, besides weight, haircuts really make the most difference. After being scarred by some pretty bad shelf-style hairdos at pivotal moments in my life (senior pictures!), I can safely say there is a lot invested when you turn your head over to someone wielding scissors and a razor and toxic chemicals.

[Haircut Flickr Set]