About three weeks ago, my sister popped an intervention on me. "Your clothes say 'cool'," she explained with an inhale, "but your hair says 'sister wife'."
It was time, I learned, for the absolute loathsome task of going to get a haircut.
I'm just one of those laid-back people who doesn't really care too much about my hair. It grows fast, I know that much, and it's curly, unless I straighten it. It's in a top-knot if it's not down. It's usually unwashed (because it's healthier and it saves time) and it doesn't get greasy unless I accidentally scratch an itch with a fork covered in gravy, which has happened exactly never. OK, once. Fine! Twice. God. What's with you and the third degree?
Haircuts aren't a necessity because I never really have a style, it's just, you know, on my head and makes me avoid looking bald. A win if ever there was one.
So it's not that the cutting of the hairs is traumatic or anything. I don't even mind paying stupid NYC prices for a new "'do", either. My problem, people, the reason I hate getting my haircut, friends, is because of the mirrors.
In what world is it considered a luxury, or a nice way to treat yourself, by sitting in front of a floor to ceiling mirror for 45 minutes in a backwards cape? It's hell.
First you sit down with your kind of gross hair, because yeah, you haven't even bothered to try and make it look nice since you knew you were getting your hair done this week. You didn't even try, and it shows. And now you're sitting there (and by the way, no one looks good sitting in front of a mirror) with a stylist folding and poking your dirty mane as you try to avoid direct eye contact with ... yourself.
After the hair washing, which is never really unpleasant, you come back to the awful haircutting seat to see that yesterday's makeup has started running down your face, and that GOOD GOD, wet hair is not your best look. In fact, this is probably the worst you've looked in months.
And that's just the beginning. You have to sit there, in that horrible salon lighting, and play the "Am I looking in the mirror too much? Too little? Am I too vain? Am I too scared? Do I look in the mirror more or less than the person next to me? OH GOD AM I DOING MY MIRROR FACE?!" game for the better part of an hour.
The blow-drying provides somewhat of a barrier between you and your reflection, but then, then, they go ahead and double it.
The stylist forces you to hold a hand mirror and spins you around in front of the gigantic mirror in a sadistic dance that will only stop once you've thoroughly convinced them you like what you see.
I don't know about you, but they could've shaved my head like a deranged Britney Spears and I still wouldn't have been able to tell them fast enough how much I like it, just to make the mirror spinning stop. Ooh, it feels so light! Putting on a swim cap will be so much easier now, thank you!
Once you're done, you catch yourself and your new hair in the hateful mirror, but it's no use -- the uneven spotlights make you look like your half-dead twin sister. The lighting is, in fact, so unforgiving that just two weeks ago, when I went through this so that I could once again look like a well-adjusted member of society and not some polygamist cult follower, I believe I spotted some cellulite on my teeth.
See you in November, 2013, salon.
Do you like going to get your hair cut?
Photo via the miami story/Flickr