A change will do you good

I had my hair cut today, super short.

Remind you of anyone? Hmm? Ringin' any bells?

Alright. If I must.

Okay, so I need to work on my pout. Loose a few....or 400...pounds. About three hours in the tanning bed, and win the lottery in four states. And even then, I could never pull off those glasses.

I'd been thinking about doing this for a while but was having a hard time finding a salon. Not that there is any shortage of beauty salons in the Silicon Valley, far from it actually, but I couldn't honestly believe how expensive it is to get a decent hair cut. I couldn't find anything under $55, and even then, those salons didn't have good reviews. Last night we took our lovely friend Tyler (who is visiting us from Utah and oh yeah, is buying our car that we haven't replaced yet.....OH, THIS SHOULD BE FUN) out to dinner at a fancy little mall near our home. Mall is really an operative word, it's more like a conglomeration of fancy restaurants, posh stores (eh? you like that?), and nothing within a 5 miles radius that any normal person can afford.

Anyway.

So while we were waiting for our table I popped into the Aveda salon to see if they had any openings in the next, oh, three weeks. "Actually, yes, we just had a cancellation, can you come in tomorrow afternoon?" COULD I? Ahem. Yes, that'll do.

I arrived on time apparently to wait 30 minutes while drinking ice water and reading an article on Ashley Olsen. Apparently this is protocol. Then a thin, black haired woman, a little reminiscent of Nelly Furtado, came and finally said she'd get to that whole cutting-my-hair business. Or whatever.

"Oh my gosh, I'm like, SO sorry. I've been like, color-correcting since like....ohmigosh, like, 9 this morning? Wait, today's Friday? Yeah, since like, 9 am."

Oh boy. This is going to be painful.

I showed her the pictures I'd printed off the internet, right side, left side, and back that explained exactly how to cut the hair. She took one look at it, and was like "Oh yeah, I know how to do that. I took a class." she said, though it only took a few seconds of her twirling my hair before she'd picked up the paper and started intently reading it. I tried to suppress my worry, I mean, she was a senior level hair stylist right? She knew what she was doing. Sure, maybe she's not the brightest of the bunch, but they wouldn't let her work there if she couldn't properly wield a pair of scissors. Right? RIGHT?!

I was right on both accounts. She knew how to cut hair, very well in fact, and was a total and complete ditz. Maybe I'm being too harsh, maybe I was just annoyed from the wait and her endless suggestions that this cut would look so much better with highlights. Have you ever thought of highlighting your hair? My hair used to be your exact color, but look! I dyed mine. If you highlight your hair, it would just like, totally make it pop, make it shinier, make it smoother. Totally look like, way better. Hey? Have you ever thought of dying your hair?

Needless to say, I won't be going back. I love it, but in her very own words, "Any stylist could like, totally do this cut." Well! Lovely! I shan't be back then! Toodles!

So she charged me an arm, a leg, my first born child, and all of my allowance. And then she asked for my credit card. Besides my car and plane tickets, it was the single most expensive item I've ever purchased for myself. The woman told me how much it would be and my eyes nearly bugged out of my head. I had an idea of course, knew it would be expensive, but I was just not expecting to hear that number. I might have nightmares.

I don't even want to think about what would have happened if I'd let her add highlights.

I'm feeling a little queasy, excuse me.

(Okay, quick! Look at the back! I like it.)