Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Layers and Bangs

The other day I couldn't stand it any more.  I needed a haircut.  My hair is long and super thick and it was breaking with the weight of itself.  Pair that with the post partum hair loss, and I had a halo of short hairs all over my head.

I was walking to the library and went right past Rudy's Barbershop.  I thought, what the heck, I'll give it a try.  I'm tired of paying $50 for a haircut.  So I walked in and put my name on the "first come, first served" sheet and waited for my turn wondering which of the three tattooed men would cut my hair.  A mild-looking twenty something with hair the same length as his beard stubble called my name and invited me to sit in his chair.  That's when I started getting a little nervous.  He asked what I wanted done, and I laughingly told him to make me beautiful.  That's when he started getting a little nervous.

I was too short to see myself in the mirror above the shelf on which Winston kept his combs and scissors.  I'm so used to going to fancy salons to get my hair cut that this was like stepping into a foreign country where I didn't know the customs and language.  We went to get my hair wet in the basin and as I laid back with my head in the sink, Winston sprayed my head with lukewarm water.  His hands clumsily maneuvered the nozzle around my hair every once in a while spraying in my ears or my eyes.

When we went back to his chair, I nervously tried to start hairdresser conversation.  "So, what's your story, Winston?  You from Seattle?"  


Ok, then, this is not the place to talk about trashy prime-time TV.  Hm.  I tried to relax a little.  The alternative music was turned up just high enough to be prohibitive to chit-chat. Winston tugged at the snarls in my hair with his comb spraying water everywhere.  I studied his colorful tatoos that covered every inch of skin showing on his arms.

What am I doing here?

He sprayed my hair with leave- in conditioner, and parted it.  Then, he took long sections of hair from either side of my part and cut it.  Short.  About 4-5 inches shorter than the rest of my hair.  I closed my eyes and repeated to myself "If it sucks, I can get it fixed."

The walls of Rudy's are plastered with pictures.  I was studying them intensely while I repeated my mantra when I realized that most of these were of artsy pictures of topless women, or with pasties, or black and whites of just bodies, or anime style drawings of women.  Recommence the uncomfortable nervousness.

Oy, what am I doing here?

Winston took sections of hair at a time and combed them out to cut.  The long pieces of wet hair slapped my face as he combed through them.  He made the short part sections blend in with the rest of my hair.  I realized that he had just cut the shortest layer first.  Are the women at fancy salons trained not to cause that kind of panic in their clients?

When he was done cutting, Winston didn't ask what I thought or how I felt or anything.  He simply asked "Do you want me to blow it dry?"  Me and my uncomfortableness said "No thanks."  And I paid and left.

I still hadn't really seen my head since I was too short to see myself in the barbershop mirror.  I walked home very deliberately trying not to panic over the state of my head.

But, the result?  Not so bad.  I'm not sure I'd do it again?  But I kinda like it.

And since I don't have a photo of my new 'do to post here, I will leave you with some Lucy cuteness:

Smile for the camera!


Pierre Jouneau said...

Très mignonne, Lucy.
Mais j'aimerais bien voir la tête de la maman, après ce passage chez le coiffeur.



Elizabeth said...

Hmmm...sounds like a terrifying experience to me. But I'm kind of particular about my hair. Can't wait to see the new do!

Tara said...

Great story. You're brave!

amber theiss said...

Goodness girl you are brave. Your story was making me giggle. I'm glad that it turned out ok. Make sure you share a pic when you get the chance!