On Haircuts

Samson.  Rapunzel.  Gigi from Scruples II, who says "Hair.  Is.  Destiny."

They know.

Haircuts are odd things.  Haircuts, honestly, ought to be right up there with manicures: you're trimming and shaping dead flesh, making your past into your present.  However, frequently, haircuts figure into the issue of self-presentation to a frightening degree: they become, to a certain extent, identity markers in a way that fingernails don't (most likely because they're, er, on your face, but also possibly because fingernails are more ephemeral, and also, because most people are too unobservant to track the specific significance of gnawed cuticles or flaked aubergine polish). 

Trendy hair is cool: you do it yourself, in the bathroom, drunk on emotion or scotch, not caring what anybody will think (anybody but me remember the scene from "Empire Records"?  didn't think so) (btw, I have never been that cool, possibly because my rendering skills fade out once we get into three dimensions, possibly because I'm not actually flexible enough, mentally or physically, to envision the back of my own head).  Highlighted, blown out, layered tresses spell wealth and an obsessive attention to detail: I possess neither (nor do my friends, for the most part), so, I can't really speak to that one.  Long and short are lesser divides then most assume, I think: assumptions of femme and butch, hard and soft, don't really tie into it for me ... it's more about personal association then public presentation.

When I was two, my mother cut my hair for the first time.  The curls never came back.

When I was six, vindictively, possibly in retribution for my licking all of the strawberries at a dinner party before attempting to eat a champagne flute, I was given bangs.  (They may have thought that it would improve my vision.)  Even then, I remember thinking, "Cleopatra?  Sh-yeah. Right."

In the seventh grade, mom caved in to my masochistic desire for a perm.  That was the year that they called me "Fluffy".  That was also the year that I spent in the vice-principal's office.  Draw your own conclusions. 

I've cried over haircuts.  I've held friends as they've cried over haircuts. 

Hair might not be destiny, but it sure as hell helps.

As a more-or-less adult, I've dyed my hair funny colors.  (Friends looking back over my albums have likened me to a survivor of Chernobyl.)  I've cut it short.  (And realized that short hair makes me look a lot younger, which, at this point?  ... not so helpful.)  And I've completely given the fuck up on it, because I don't have the time to fuss with it, and I don't have the energy to keep it looking good, so I wash it and wear it and do my best to keep it out of my face.

Long hair is easier, for me: sure, in a fight, it might be a practical hazard, but, well, at this age, that's less of a concern, and frankly, I've read enough of the wrong literature to kinda cherish the idea of using it as a garrote.  But I use no gel, I keep no diffuser, and when it looks like shit, I pile it atop my skull and go off whistling.

But even I have to deal with it once a year.

So, today I woke up with a yen for order.  (This may have been due to having stayed up till six the night before - blessed summer! - and my resulting inability to do anything along the lines of organization myself.)  So I booked a hair appointment!

With Carol, at Aveda.

Carol cuts good hair.  I can honestly say that this is a haircut which has not left me teary, or ashamed, or determined to invest in collapsible silk top-hats (though, since I do have a birthday coming up in, er, eight months, think about it, people).  It's a good haircut: I managed to lose two inches of split ends (how she clucked at me disapprovingly when I told her that my last haircut had been in July) without actually losing length.

But, dude.

Most.  Hostile.  Haircut.  Ever.

Apparently, I walked into some salon drama.  As the shampoo girl was massaging my scalp (a very relaxing sensation) she was simultaneously snarling at another employee to get off her ass and fold some towels, or something.  Carol managed to cut my hair one-handed while snapping for a manager to get them off one another, repeatedly.  And, honestly ...

It was great!  No one blew smoke up my ass about "... really?  Your natural color?"  No one tried to sell me product!  They were too busy placing bets on who would win.

I'm planning to go back.  Get some bangs.  Bring some popcorn.  Maybe make a little mad money off the winner to cover a brow wax ...  

Hair might not be destiny, but it sure makes for hella good entertainment ...

On Haircuts

Samson.  Rapunzel.  Gigi from Scruples II, who says "Hair.  Is.  Destiny."

They know.

Haircuts are odd things.  Haircuts, honestly, ought to be right up there with manicures: you're trimming and shaping dead flesh, making your past into your present.  However, frequently, haircuts figure into the issue of self-presentation to a frightening degree: they become, to a certain extent, identity markers in a way that fingernails don't (most likely because they're, er, on your face, but also possibly because fingernails are more ephemeral, and also, because most people are too unobservant to track the specific significance of gnawed cuticles or flaked aubergine polish). 

Trendy hair is cool: you do it yourself, in the bathroom, drunk on emotion or scotch, not caring what anybody will think (anybody but me remember the scene from "Empire Records"?  didn't think so) (btw, I have never been that cool, possibly because my rendering skills fade out once we get into three dimensions, possibly because I'm not actually flexible enough, mentally or physically, to envision the back of my own head).  Highlighted, blown out, layered tresses spell wealth and an obsessive attention to detail: I possess neither (nor do my friends, for the most part), so, I can't really speak to that one.  Long and short are lesser divides then most assume, I think: assumptions of femme and butch, hard and soft, don't really tie into it for me ... it's more about personal association then public presentation.

When I was two, my mother cut my hair for the first time.  The curls never came back.

When I was six, vindictively, possibly in retribution for my licking all of the strawberries at a dinner party before attempting to eat a champagne flute, I was given bangs.  (They may have thought that it would improve my vision.)  Even then, I remember thinking, "Cleopatra?  Sh-yeah. Right."

In the seventh grade, mom caved in to my masochistic desire for a perm.  That was the year that they called me "Fluffy".  That was also the year that I spent in the vice-principal's office.  Draw your own conclusions. 

I've cried over haircuts.  I've held friends as they've cried over haircuts. 

Hair might not be destiny, but it sure as hell helps.

As a more-or-less adult, I've dyed my hair funny colors.  (Friends looking back over my albums have likened me to a survivor of Chernobyl.)  I've cut it short.  (And realized that short hair makes me look a lot younger, which, at this point?  ... not so helpful.)  And I've completely given the fuck up on it, because I don't have the time to fuss with it, and I don't have the energy to keep it looking good, so I wash it and wear it and do my best to keep it out of my face.

Long hair is easier, for me: sure, in a fight, it might be a practical hazard, but, well, at this age, that's less of a concern, and frankly, I've read enough of the wrong literature to kinda cherish the idea of using it as a garrote.  But I use no gel, I keep no diffuser, and when it looks like shit, I pile it atop my skull and go off whistling.

But even I have to deal with it once a year.

So, today I woke up with a yen for order.  (This may have been due to having stayed up till six the night before - blessed summer! - and my resulting inability to do anything along the lines of organization myself.)  So I booked a hair appointment!

With Carol, at Aveda.

Carol cuts good hair.  I can honestly say that this is a haircut which has not left me teary, or ashamed, or determined to invest in collapsible silk top-hats (though, since I do have a birthday coming up in, er, eight months, think about it, people).  It's a good haircut: I managed to lose two inches of split ends (how she clucked at me disapprovingly when I told her that my last haircut had been in July) without actually losing length.

But, dude.

Most.  Hostile.  Haircut.  Ever.

Apparently, I walked into some salon drama.  As the shampoo girl was massaging my scalp (a very relaxing sensation) she was simultaneously snarling at another employee to get off her ass and fold some towels, or something.  Carol managed to cut my hair one-handed while snapping for a manager to get them off one another, repeatedly.  And, honestly ...

It was great!  No one blew smoke up my ass about "... really?  Your natural color?"  No one tried to sell me product!  They were too busy placing bets on who would win.

I'm planning to go back.  Get some bangs.  Bring some popcorn.  Maybe make a little mad money off the winner to cover a brow wax ...  

Hair might not be destiny, but it sure makes for hella good entertainment ...