Tuesday, 31 July 2012
Idle Hands 2
My hair is straight.
What my stylist calls, pain-in-the-ass-straight.
A simple trim that would normally take 30 minutes takes almost an hour because she has to 'sculpt' each hair. It's not that I have a complicated haircut, it's that the hair is so straight and lies so limp, every strand is visible and anything out of order stands out like neon.
This brings me to my fringe (bangs). I have always been in the school of thought that anyone can trim their own fringe if they pay attention while in the stylist's chair. Of course I have photographic proof that this was not the case in elementary school, but my mother claims my eye-scrunching was to blame for those choppy mishaps.
I regularly trim my fringe to add another week or so to my short haircut. Shorter fringe and the whole thing looks fresh again. That is until June.
The problem started when I dropped in to a semi-trendy salon on my way home from work instead of waiting a day for an appointment at my usual place. The stylist was reluctant to trim as much as I wanted and did some funky flat-ironing to my already flat hair which caused a bizarre cowlick in the fringe, around which he based his fringe-trimming!!!
We have all had these experiences, yes? You sit there watching your haircut go horribly wrong but you can't bring yourself to say anything except, "Thanks, that's great! Perfect!" You hand over the exorbitant amount due for a drop-in session with an 'expert' stylist and as soon as you're out of eyesight, pull your hair back into a ponytail (or as close as you can get) and hope you're pulling of the 'messy look.' Then for the rest of the day you either avoid mirrors completely or obsessively peer at how horrible it is and hold back the tears.
What I should have done was go directly to my stylist, begged forgiveness and had her put it to rights. What I did instead was attempt to put it to rights myself.
Now, I am not a complete novice. I have no real training, but I have cut other people's hair from time to time with some success. Except that time when I got carried away with the buzzers and inexplicably shaved off part of my husband's hairline. I'm not sure what happened there, and bless him, he just went with it, but he now trims his own sideburns.
That episode aside, I'm not too shabby. So how hard could it be to, at least, clean up the fringe situation in this all-around disaster?
The answer can be found in the following scene...
It's 10am. We're supposed to be getting ready for the wedding and I'm searching, desperately, through my toiletry bag for my scissors. I know I put them in here, I never travel without them for just this reason: an emergency fringe trim. All week I have been trying to fix the damage caused by that hack, but all I have at my disposal are fingernail scissors and the scissor on my Swiss Army knife. The result is disastrous. The cowlick he created is now a permanent fixture and trying to compensate for it is beyond my skill. I have left a trail of tiny hair trimmings on hotel sinks across Ireland tyring to remedy this situation, but the curved nail scissors are not cut out for this job.
I can't find the scissors and it's time to leave. In a last ditch attempt, I secure my hat and get out the Swiss Army knife, flipping out the scissor section and trimming so at least it looks even for today. I just won't take off the hat. (And I didn't until about midnight. That's commitment.)
On my return, I immediately made an appointment with my stylist and, upon seeing me, she gave me a right scolding and had a good laugh at my expense. She did the best she could but the fringe was still a bit wonky when I walked out. She just sighed and shook her head.
I have an appointment tomorrow. Do you think she'll notice I've been at it again?
Updated: She didn't notice. Or at least she didn't say.