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Bad hair day can break down even the strongest
by Mary Rinkoski I am a strong woman. There were no tears when I was
pulled over by the highway patrol and no frightened hysterics when
I came home to find my house had been burglarized. But yet one bad
haircut reduced me to a slobbering lunatic, barely able to dial
my sister’s number while gasping for air and gripping what remained
of my priceless locks. I should have known the minute I walked into the small salon and
saw her: a woman in a short black skirt, a matching nylon jacket,
posing as leather, engrossed in the television. The stuffing poked
out of the couch beneath her ample weight and a single plastic chair
with its glimmering metal footrest loomed against the back wall.
Undeterred, I announced confidently that I had a four o’clock appointment.
I was tangled in the web of social decency, forced to trust her
with the bottom inch or so of my hair. I just would have to visit
a second salon, one with witnesses, for my real cut and style. I opted to skip the shampooing to speed
up the process and as she spritzed my hair I began to relax and
chide myself on judging her skills based on appearances. Just because
she held her own hair back with a pair of sunglasses in the middle
of a gray winter day, surely didn’t mean she had no skills. She
began snipping away at the back of my head, making occasional comments
in her gruff smokers tone. “You need a few long layers to lighten
things up” will echo in my brain for years to come, the death sentence
for my mid-back length blanket of curls. It was like the Tazmanian devil with scissors,
but yet it was in slow motion. With each snip another inch of hair
fell to the floor as I watched in terrified amazement. Why I didn’t
speak up when I first sensed a problem I will never know, but before
I could form the words the damage had been done. The front began
to curl toward my chin and there was no solace in the back, being
six inches longer. I
looked around in terror but found no comfort in the one small boy
dripping melted chocolate down his shirt as he watched a cackling
talk show through his bangs. Fight or flight—I am only human. I offer
to dry it myself and threw her a check as I raced out the door,
fighting the urge to scoop up my hair from its halo on the floor
and rush it to some emergency hair repair center. I ran my hand
through my near-mullet as I pounded up the stairs and into my apartment.
Throwing a towel around my shoulders, I jammed my head in the shower
with the frantic illusion that it would look fine if only I could
put it through the normal routine of wash, gel, dry. Alas, the scissors
of death had taken their toll and even Pantene couldn’t save me.
This leads me back to the blithering emotional
mass curled around the phone in fetal position. Thank God for sisters,
especially those who can see through the phone lines that it doesn’t
look nearly as bad as I think it does. It’s only hair, it
will grow we decided. With the confidence of Sampson and my
hair in a fluffy poof of a ponytail, I finally pick my chin up,
grab my keys and grocery list and headed out the door. Even bad
hair cannot conquer this independent woman. |