Hissy fit : Or what to do when your stylist does whatever she wants instead of what you ask her to do

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . April 22, 2009 . 11:09PM

Long-time friends are aware that my hair needs have changed dramatically over the last 10 years. Over my lifetime, I’ve had most hair colors, avoiding the crayola dramatics, but embracing the classic shades. Highlights have been my friends and enemies. I’ve been a long haired grecian goddess and a pixie wench. For the last year or so, due to my inherent need for self-awareness, I’ve embraced my naturalistic ash brown forest earth mother look with flowing, long locks of a singular length.

All of that changed yesterday and turned into this.

It was a normal day, with the exception of the massive caterpillar across my face that made me look like a yeti with hirsutism. I’d been holding off on the waxing because of the unattractive sunburn I’d received from Little League baseball watching 2 weeks ago. It was time. I was resolved.

While I sat there waiting for the stylist, AJ was hitting my last nerve. I examined my greasy hair and hugely split ends and became even more resolved to do something about my current hair state, if for no other reason than I needed a break from the constant chatter of a hyper 8-year old. Nothing exotic or large was going to happen. I just wanted the split ends removed and no layers. I’ve been growing my hair out for over a year.

What my stylist heard, her of the 1993 Meg-Ryan-duck-butt-blonde-hair-flare that had grown to her shoulders, was that I wanted 4 INCHES OFF OF MY LENGTH AND A FULL SET OF LAYERS. I think my first inclination that something was wrong was when I asked her how much she’d need to take and how bad my split ends were was that she giggled nervously and replied, “Oh, I can’t really tell how split they are when your hair is wet. The water mends your ends so unless it’s dry, I won’t know.” She said this while cutting. I started to fidget nervously and watched a hunk of hair fall off the scissors.

That was the end. She started cutting like a madwoman. I’ve never seen anything like it. Her already squinty eyes became irrationally beady to me. I started to sweat. She kept trying to talk to me about AJ, but all I wanted to do was leave. When she was done, I threw my hair back into a ponytail and jetted. I got home and stewed. That Delilah! How dare she cut my hair like that? It was specifically what I said I DIDN’T want. Cutting a woman’s hair is like cutting off a man’s penis. Ok, maybe not that bad.

When I finally had the courage to take it down and look at it, I winced and slowly turned to Leon. His response, “It looks great!” The response of my friends, “It’s hot. I love it! I’m sorry it’s not what you wanted, but I really like it. It brings out your natural curl.”

Hrmph. But like a petulant child, I want what I want, dang it! Don’t do what I don’t want, even if I look better. I look hot? I look great?

Ok. Maybe it’s growing on me. I might go back.