Those times when you and your stylist/barber are just not on the same page? Maybe you weren't clear about what you wanted, maybe they were having a bad day...but it just didn't work out quite right, you know?
No? Does this just happen to me?
Well, this happened in a BIG way on Friday evening. I've been back in Germany about a week and it was time for a haircut. My "regular" hair lady has been gone for the past 3 months and I've been seeing someone else for my cut and color...someone I really love and who has been doing a great job. But I figured I'd go back to my regular salon this time. So off I went. (Life lesson: if it ain't broke, don't fix it. I LOVED my previous haircut. Sigh.)
These are my exact words to my hairstylist: "just a little shorter, a little messier, cleaned up around the top".
This is what I ended up with, I KID YOU NOT:
You guys. The sides and back of my head are SHAVED. The top is long and pompadour-ish. There is no way to style this haircut in a way that is anything OTHER than early 90s boy-band.
How did this happen? Is my hairstylist angry at me? I don't even know. All I know is that when she picked up the clippers, I didn't think twice. She normally uses them to clean up my neck and around my ears. But suddenly, my head is being shaved. SHAVED.
My response? Hysterical laughter. I had to sit in my seat with my nails digging into the palm of my hand to create pain so I would not burst out in hysterical laughter over what was happening. I didn't know what else to do. And she's all "this will grow out really fast and you'll have a nice layered look..." I don't even remember the exchange we had as she finished up and I paid, because all I could think was "get out the door, get out the door, do not laugh, DO NOT LAUGH".
I got into my car and burst into a fit of laughter. The kind of laughter that makes your abs hurt. I remember thinking " so this is what it feels like to go crazy..."
Then I had the following conversation with Z via text:
(side note: I'm happy that he doesn't know what members belong to which boy band. I'd be worried if he did. Lance Bass is obviously part of *NSYNC.)
Then my sweet husband said something about me always looking sexy, which I've edited out of this post since our parents read this. You're welcome. Then I replied:
First of all, God bless Zach for being so wonderful in my distress (although he did abandon me in my time of need with that "jumping in the shower" bit). Secondly, for the rest of the story to make sense, I need to show you what I tweeted earlier that day:
So in my distress, I drive home and park in the driveway without thinking twice. Except I cannot actually park in the driveway, which is on an incline. The clutch is out, the car is off and in gear, and I'm still rolling backwards out of my driveway. At this point, I'm just trying to get in the house and get a shower to see if I can do ANYTHING to fix my hair. Plus, I'm really worried about a neighbor coming outside and seeing me. Or ANYONE coming outside and seeing me. Z has so kindly supplied my car with a cinder block, for such a time as this when I would need to wedge it under a wheel so the car would stay put. HOWEVER, I cannot get out of the car to place this block behind the wheel...so I push the brake petal in to stop the car and call Z on his cell. As I'm calling him, he walks out the front door. We make eye contact. He gives the slightest smirk...and that is all it took.
I burst into tears WHILST hysterically laughing. I'm talking the kind of laughing that doubles you over and makes you concerned that you might wet your pants. I can't even speak. Tears streaming down my face. Laughing. Crying. Hysterics. I unroll the window and manage to gasp out "I need help!"
Then I started trying to explain that maybe it's just the way my hair is styled and after I take a shower it will be better...but I'm laugh-crying so hard that I'm pretty sure it was all unintelligible. At some point during this fit, I took my foot off the brake and start rolling backwards.
So there I am, sitting in the front seat of my car in hysterics, gasping about trying to restyle my hair while Z is confusedly trying to comfort me and understand me while yelling "BRAKE, BRAKE, BRAKE!" as I roll backwards down our driveway in slow motion.
You wish you were our next door neighbors.
I don't really remember what happened next. I somehow made it inside and upstairs. Z secured the car in the driveway. I took a shower. I tried to restyle my hair. Z offered encouraging words.
I tried to restyle...but failed. There's no fixing this.
So, Z has spent the last 3 days assuring me that my hair is NOT a disaster and that it doesn't look terrible. But I'm pretty sure he's paid to say this... In the meantime, I spend a lot of the time reminding myself that it is ONLY hair and it WILL grow out. And avoiding mirrors. And cameras. And feeling sorry for myself. And trying not to leave the house.
Don't even ask for a picture; I won't show one. It is THAT bad. Trust me. Only time will heal these wounds and fix this disaster...