Well, I finally bit the bullet. I got my hair cut. And now look significantly less like a hobo and more like a chick (unibrow in desperate need of plucking notwithstanding).
But the best part? I actually found a stylist I like. And will return to. With a 54 percent chance that return trip will be before the Mayan-predicted end of the world.
Now, I don’t know what magical, karmic (<—– word?…not word?) power a whiny blog post has, or if perhaps the webmaster of WordPress is actually a wizard of some sort, but after my last post about my dread of going to the salon, I had one of the best salon experiences of my life.
Her name is Vildan and she didn’t:
1. Judge me because it’s been 11 months since my last haircut.
2. Judge me because I dye my own hair and it has currently faded to the color of rust mixed with mud with awkwardly-placed copper highlights.
And 3. Judge me because I was on my sixth cup of coffee and talking like that guy from the 80’s who used to be on those toy car commercials. (YeahImovedhereaboutayearagoandIgottatellyouIjustloveBostondon’tyou?Imeanthere’ssomuchtodoandseeandsomuchtodrinkinfactmygoalistodrinkmy
In fact, she was so cool and talented, I even debated whether to ask her to be my BFF but I felt that might be a little creepy (especially after the unfortunate “accidental” boob graze incident). So I settled instead for watching her do her magic and give my hair an actual style that moves and swings like those annoying celebrities in hair commercials and has a shape other than “blah.”
(Although, I’d just like to add that if my dearest ex-stylist Stacy is reading this, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you anymore. What we had was great but I think we both know it couldn’t last. Long distance relationships never work out and scissors can only reach so far. And while I hate to see our very special bond (split) end (heh), just remember: Vildan is not replacing you. There is room in my heart and scalp for the both of you).
So thank you, Vildan, for making my hair look like it no longer wants to jump from my head and commit suicide.
P.S. I’d post a photo but apparently I slept on my eye wrong and it’s all swollen and wonky (and again, fellas, sorry, but I’m taken), so for now you’ll just have to take my word that I now look like ScarJo.