I Am Woman

I am in a deadline writing cycle which basically means for two weeks I work all the time and nothing around me gets done unless I can get it done without leaving my computer for more than ten minutes.  Unfortunately, this writing cycle also coincided with my haircut cycle.  As some might already know, my hair is a constant source of consternation for me.  It is curly, thick and when in need of a trim – frizzy.  I have tried many products to fix these problems from pricey salon treatments to African-American hair products highly recommended by my African-American friends, who swore on their husbands’ graves even though they were still alive, that the products would work. However, upon seeing my hair after using their products, have a tendency to  announce, “Oh, Girl, it’s hopeless.”

Anyway, I decided that deadlines or not, I was going to get my hair trimmed. I used to go to a place that charged me $50 for a ten minute trim.  Sure, they threw in a nice relaxing hair shampoo, but I get annoyed with the long shampoo when I am under pressure to get other things done. Besides my hair grows back in three weeks, and with the economy the way it is, I had a tough time justifying that cost twice a month.  So, I found a nice hair styling chain with very nice women who seem to know how to cut curly hair.

That was until this last haircut.  I went into the salon, and no one was waiting. I saw one of the women who usually cut my hair, and I was thrilled. I signed in and my usual person did not come up to usher me back.  No, it was another chick who I  had seen  before but who had never cut my hair.  I told myself to keep an open mind and go with the flow. (Going with the flow is my new philosophy.  I think it might help me live past the age of 50.)

Anyway, the red flags sprung up immediately. She started to cut my hair dry.  I was going to say something about at least spritzing it with water, but I thought “go with the flow.”  As she cut, she asked a few small talk questions which I answered with as few words as possible. I like to keep chatter light and to the minimum getting a haircut; I feel stylists need to focus when cutting hair like mine.  After a long pause in the conversation, she said,

“This is my last shift ever as a hair stylist. I am moving back to Baltimore to my mom’s house because I can’t figure out life and I don’t want to be a hair dresser anymore and in fact, my mom is worried because I take no pride in anything I do, and she says I’m not a good hairdresser and I just do things half-assed.”

Yep, those were her exact words; I am not exaggerating. At this point, she was chopping away at my locks with abandon. Each time she mentioned her mother, a bigger chunk of my hair came out. I tried to calm her down, but I have to say, she was intent on using those thinning shears.  Finally, she said I was done. I didn’t even look.  I paid, went home and surveyed the damage.

I had to write three articles over the next two days, so I didn’t go back, but trust me when I say my hair was a combination of a mullet and an Afro hairdo. It was not a pretty sight. It was so bad that my husband noticed.  Normally, I could die my hair flaming orange, and he would not see anything different. This is a sore spot in our marriage. But this time, Mr. Observation noticed with the words, “What the hell happened?”  So, of course, tears erupted and curse words flew, and I stormed back to the salon demanding a re-do.

For the record, I am not a good “stormer” when it comes to getting what I want as a customer; I am as they say – more talk than action. But just as I have decided “to go with the flow” more, I have also decided to adopt the “I am just as important as everyone else and demand good service” attitude.

I walked into the salon with a distinct swagger of determination. I was prepared to argue and bitch about the mess on top of my head.  I was about to let my tirade go when the manager noticed me and said, “Oh, Hon, did we do that to you? Come Sweetie, let’s fix this.”

I almost cried in relief.  I was so happy that the salon came through for me even though I lost my opportunity to try out my new forceful personality outside of my home.  Not to worry though, I do have my health insurance company to deal with this week, so I will use my HMO as a practice tool to show the world that I am strong; I am invincible; and I am woman – and now a  woman  with good hair.



Share this Post:

14 thoughts on “I Am Woman”

  1. Even I would notice if Mary came home with a hairstyle like your picture! But otherwise, probably not! Hair is just not that important to a guy’s view of a woman! The main thing I notice about Mary’s hair is how much it costs to “maintain” each month!

  2. Aww Donna, you need to take some lessons from my husband about storming in to hairdressers and demanding a fix! Apparently he’s pretty darn good at that although I’m still not too sure how an eighth of an inch of hair can be fixed or cut or f-ked up…

  3. Yes, using the Stewart Smalley approach will always increase your esteem, even if you do not have hair as smooth as his. 🙂

  4. I would give my right big toe to have a full head of thick, curly hair. Instead, I have been blessed with thick, coarse, straight hair. It takes forever to dry when I shampoo it, but once I mold it into shape it stays put. It also grows faster than a speeding bullet. It’s fun sometimes just to let it swing and feel it swishing around. I should be happy about this and not complain, right? Instead, I wish I had curly hair. How do you figure this?

    1. Because we all want what we don’t have. I don’t hate it now, but the cut was so horrible. The stylist who was fixing it and the stylist next to her just kept saying, “Oh my God, how did she do this to her head?” over and over. It took an hour to fix and my hair usually takes 10 minutes to trim. She said it might take two haircuts to get back to where it should be. Luckily, my hair does grow extremely fast. by next haircut, it

  5. Well if your husband noticed it, it had to be bad. I say that because I won’t notice if someone traded out my wife entirely as long as someone kept feeding and nagging me. hahaha Good luck with that HMO, you are women, hear her roar. (I am man, hear me belch.) 🙂

          1. Just tell the HMO person you have PMS and you’re out of chocolate. That’ll scare the hell out of them.

      1. Well I’m afraid I’m at the end of repertoire, the only way I know to fight a woman is with my hat. I grab it and run.

Comments are closed.