Since my birthday was on Monday, I took the day off and had a 3-day weekend. It was nice, but we stayed pretty busy!
Saturday morning, I got a haircut. A real haircut, not just a trim. We went to a new salon near our neighborhood. Josh had already gotten a haircut there a couple days after it opened, so I already had his recommendation. The stylist asked me how I wanted it... Let me just preface this whole story by saying I have haircut issues. When I was younger (up until middle school) my mom had serious control issues with the hair of her children. I desperately wanted to grow my bangs out, and I'd have them about to eyelid level and then my mom would drag us to a haircut. It never failed - I'd tell the stylist that I was growing my bangs out, and they would still cut the bangs to mid-forehead length. Apparently my mom was in cahoots with them ahead of time and told them to chop it off. And that's just the bang drama, I am not even going to get into the poodle-permed MULLET she made me have until I was 12. Even now at my ripe old age, to me haircuts = crying. I usually don't do more than a trim and most of the layers I've had have long since grown out.
So anyway, I explained my haircutophobia to the stylist on Saturday. Also told her we were getting married in a month, so I wanted some long layers, but nothing drastic. Josh was with me, and he is ... enthusiastic about long hair, to say the least. We decided on long layers, and about an inch off in length.
So imagine my shock when about 10 minutes later, a clump of hair the length of a dollar bill landed in my lap. My heart started racing. I glanced in the mirror. There were definitely short pieces. I could see my cheeks reddening in humilation. More and more chunks of hair were flying. In my lap, on the floor, I think one even landed on Bip while he was reading US Weekly. I began to wish I had just went to Supercuts for my usual trim, not this de-chunking that was happening. It wasn't like I could yell "stop!" It was too late. Oh Lord have mercy, IT WAS TOO LATE.
To make matters worse, when you have long hair, the 'cape' they put on you distorts things. At least on me. It fluffs and fans the hair outward. Then, when I thought things could get no worse, she took a hair dryer to me. My hair frizzes up and out when a hair dryer is aimed in it's direction, like a startled, hissing cat. Soon, I looked like a mushroom. I couldn't wait to walk out the door and cry. Then she said "ok, just let me flat iron it a bit." I wanted to scream "No! Don't touch it anymore! Can't you see you've done enough, you scorpion woman???" - but I'm much too polite. So I let her flat iron it.
A couple minutes later she took off the cape, fluffed me up a bit and... Holy Crap. It looked good. True, there was a LOT less hair on my head, and she went above and beyond the 1" limit. But I ... loved it.
Until I had to wash it, blow dry it and flat-iron it myself, that is. I'm not used to this much maintenence! I suspect I will like it even more once it's an inch or two longer, but I really do like it, and I will go back to her. I'm even thinking about BANGS (after the wedding, of course).
Exhausted from the ordeal, I went home and took a nap while the Bip went to Best Buy to pick up the Wii my mom got me for my bday.
To be continued...