I Got Shagged!

Three years ago, I got adventurous. X-tremely so. I cut my hair. Yes, for me, cutting off my beloved long mane was akin to ice climbing, bungee jumping, or cliff diving. What? You didn't know haircuts were considered an X-treme sport? You have never lived with a vain woman whose hair is always trying to define her, much as she resists. But the day came when I got tired of messing with long hair and had it whacked off, a la Lisa Rinna. Talk about an adrenaline rush.

When I saw my reflection in the mirror, I was shocked and awed. And not in a good way. That was not me, not the vision I had in mind. I sobbed a bit. I looked better in long hair. Never really got used to short hair, but I did accept it and learned to enjoy the quick ease of styling it.

Then nine months ago, I decided to grow it out again. Having made great progress since, I went yesterday for more highlights and a trim at the salon. After the foiling session, I said, "While it's growing out, I want to wear Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give." That's a cute medium style, and look, she got Keanu Reeves with it, didn't she? My hairdresser said she knew this style, acknowledged that I wanted to keep the length, and set to snipping.

"I'm going to give it some layers," she said.

Okay, it probably needs a tad more layering to achieve the desired DK effect. Meanwhile, my mind wandered. I had to mail off pictures for my ex, go to the store, meet WriterGrrls at Central Market, and then maybe take myself on a date to see James Tiberius Kirk and Dr. Spock. When I looked back in the mirror at the reflection of all the razor cutting, a large question mark appeared in my frontal lobe. But I couldn't tell what she was doing in the back, so I held my tongue. Far be it from me to tell her how to do her job, right? Then she blow-dried it and proceeded to flat-iron the tips out at around ear level.

"You don't like that?" she said.

I worked hard at keeping my emotions in check. In a panic, I nearly shouted, "I don't like that AT ALL! I don't think we're on the same style page here."

She quickly changed tactics and smoothed down the flippity-dos. Then she whirled my chair around and gave me the hand mirror to see the back. She'd given the top half of my hair choppy layers and left the bottom six inches alone to keep the length, which gave it that nightmarish mullet look. It would be kind of me to describe it as Fugly. Worse, a lot of my hard-earned hair growth surrounded me on the floor. I wanted to cry.

She said astutely, "I think you're not happy with it."

What was your first clue? My uncontrollable sobs? The jerky I-think-I'm-gonna-barf face? Or your missing scissors that I now have aimed at your gut? If she'd had balls, I'd have already squeezed them inside my hand.

"No," I said. "But I don't know how to tell you to fix it."

I wanted to make it all go away and run for the exit. But she'd be damned if I was going to leave her shop unhappy. She pushed me back in the chair and snipped at the bottom half. Of course, that did not help much. My hair had many choppy layers, front and back. After that stunt, I was totally exhausted.

People, I have been shagged. I look like a blonde David Cassidy. If I had a working camera, I'd let you see the real thing. Does this even resemble Diane Keaton's style? I think the difference qualifies as X-treme. Makes me want to push my hairdresser off a cliff.

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