I had my back to school trim this morning, which was my first haircut since November. Before all the readers out there in the blogiverse suck in a collective gasp, bear in mind that I wear my hair long, have never coloured it, and avoid heat styling as a general rule. Since my hair is curly, it doesn’t require much scissor maintenance, not to mention the fact that the longer it is, the easier it is to manage.
Somewhere in my harried mind as I drove through seventeen construction zones to barely make my appointment on time, I decided to really get my money’s worth in the chair today and get a little more cut off than my normal one inch trim. I’m not sure where the idea came from, but the (almost) heat wave we’re experiencing after an otherwise cold and drizzly summer may have played a role in my decision.
My hairdresser is awesome; she’s the only person I trust with my hair. Overall, she only cut off about four inches, which isn’t that much for the average woman, but a girl has to use the curly hair cutting equation to determine the final net cut.
(actual length cut off) x (1.5 in winter or 2.25 in summer) = net length of hair trimmed
I could get all fancy pants with you and explain the variables based on the type of product applied to the hair, and all the other factors, but trust me when I say that a trim is never just a trim for a curlyhead. Essentially, I had a nine inch trim today. I am fine. My hair is traumatized.
Straight haired people look fabulous when they leave the salon. I can’t tell you how many of my smooth-tressed friends gripe about not being able to recreate the hairstyle magic their hairdressers cast on their coifs in the elevator chair. I think it has something to do with round brushes. I can see one of my straight haired friends and I know by the bounce of her hair that she’s just left the salon.
Curly-haired people dread getting their hair cut, since cutting curls inevitably causes major emotional distress to their hair. Mine is having a royal fit at the moment, like a toddler who stomps and screams herself to the verge of vomiting in the toy aisle at Wal-Mart. It is big, floofy, and way beyond curly. Several areas of strands are bending at right angles; my hair is full of elbows today. At one point, I probably could have taken first prize in the Portuguese Water Dog class at the Westminster Dog Show, like this fine fellow.
No matter how fabulous a cut I leave the salon sporting, I have to go home and re-style everything, and my current stylist is by far the best I’ve known. Today, the biggest issue was too small a blop of gel and no leave-in conditioner. I had to pull the shower thinger off the wall, soak my hair down, and go to town with the super-ultra foaming lacquer mousse and a handful of glossing goo to get it somewhat under control. It’s like a teeming angry crowd, though, a slight shift in the wind or barometric pressure will reignite the rioting.
I know without a doubt that I’ll look like crap for a few days following my haircut, and today is the crappiest of them all. My curly-headed sisters, I know you feel my pain. Tomorrow, I think I’m going to try a headband or a ponytail or a shower cap to control my locks until the storm has passed and I can safely boil spaghetti in my own home again.
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