So I went to a hair salon I'd gone to before, but the woman who had cut my hair was no longer there. I must have looked so crestfallen and/or wild-eyed that the receptionist said, "But there's another salon down the road that's good."
I said, "So, it's really good? Really?"
She said, "Oh, yeah, it's great! My mom goes there."
Now, my dear readers, you will have immediately heard the clang of the warning bell; "My mom goes there." Danger, danger Will Robinson! But, like a junkie in need of her fix, I ignored it and soon found myself pulling in to a strip mall so desolate that it looked like the apocalypse had long since come and gone. Nevertheless, I got out of the car and walked into the promisingly named "House of Style." Of course, they didn't say WHAT style....
The Style-istas were Vito and Sharon. Vito was a guy with a paunch, a lot of chest hair with sparkles of gold chain peeping through, and a loud shirt. And he was not gay. I should have turned and fled right then and there. Sharon, who was to impart style upon me, was what you call a big gal; she was tall and "big boned" and big chested and big haired and big everything else. There was just a shole lot of Sharon and a whole lot of make up on top of that. Well, I was in such a state that even Vito and Sharon didn't deter me because, damn it! the crisis of my shaggy, roots-showing hair MUST be dealt with immediately! So Sharon, with her big hair, took me to the chair. I - the woman who never uses hair products - sat passively while she cut, colored, used a curling iron, hair gel, and even hair spray. And when she was done, this is what I looked like:
(photo from MsBlueSky)You know, the eighties were a pretty good hair decade for me. I avoided the greatest excesses of the disco dos and overall looked pretty cute. But that was a few decades, a few kids, and a few pounds ago. Imagine me, today, with a hot stack of 80s hair, wearing old-lady-who-just-had-cataract-surgery disposable wraparound sunglasses (because they'd dilated my pupils) strutting out of the House of Style. It was a sight, and not a good one. When I got home I washed the product out of my hair and, by the time my kids got home from school, I was just me again. But for a little while, I looked like an AARP disco diva, and, all in all, I must say it distracted and cheered me. Sometimes a girl just needs hair therapy and it really doesn't matter where it comes from.
13 comments:
Hot!
lol
But in all seriousness...glaucoma runs hard in my family
(so does that hair)
I'm hoping to avoid both myself.
hoping for the same for you.
Sorry to hear about the glaucoma stress - here's hoping for weird-lookinginess of your optical nerve rather than anything more sinister.
Thanks for the funny story! I particularly like the thought that you had a few hours walking around like an 80s Disco Diva but that by the time your kids got home there was no trace of your secret life! It's like an episode of Bewitched or something!
And yes, from what I've seen, you definitely looked cool in the 80s and, unlike some of us, can hold your well-coiffed head up high in that respect!
Thinking of you.
xxx
Sometimes a woman just has to do what she has to do and logic be damned... But really honey, no straight guys touching the hair, just saying.
Hope the eyes get better..and you made me laugh at your hair story...I felt like you where in New Jersey. That is what I alway imagine every hair shop is like there.
Miss J TOTALLY understands. She has gone so far as to visit (gulp) Fantastic Sam's when in need of some HT. A girl has to do what she's got to do, and that is all there is to it.
Hope it's an odd optic nerve and nothing worse. Then I can laugh at the hair story with no guilt whatsoever.
will light candles and send prayers for you/and your eye problems...
never ever let a straight man touch your hair..and a woman will big hair will give you the same..my problem is no matter who or where i get my hair cut, the first 2 weeks i look like a little short dyke..all appologies to my gay friends, but it's the truth..sad..but true..
They said the pressure in my eyes is fine, and that's a good indicator. I've decided I just have a weird optic nerve. Honestly, I do have hyper sensitive eyes; clashing outfits cause me actual physical pain and I sometimes burst into involuntary tears in front of beautiful paintings. So lets just say it's a weird, and super duper sensitive nerve. Anyway, I'll find out in a week or so.
And in the mean time, please laugh with and at me. As Elizabeth Bennett's father says, 'What do we live for but to make sport of our neighbors and be laughed at in turn by them.' The whole thing really did cheer me up no end.
And ladies, even in that state, I never would have let straight Vito touch the hair. Isn't there a law in Deuteronomy that says "Neither let the lion in among the camels, nor a hetero in your tents to work upon your wife's hair." Or something like that....
You must be ever vigilant when visiting a new House of Style as any man who cuts hair that isn’t gay is merely a barber!
I would have marched right back to that first recpeptionist, pointed at my new do, and had me a slap fest.
Elizabeth -- I have the weird optic nerve thing, too! The day I found out I felt like you did, thinking about going blind and freaking myself out. And so far, it's just a weird optic nerve, and I have photos to prove it.
But the 80's were a terrible hair decade for me -- kudos to you for being fabulous and strutting out of House of Style!!!
hope you're well.
xoxo
Oh girl. I came here looking for cheer after my own Hair of Horrors story. I'm glad yours washed out. Mine didn't. Mine was at the hands of Laura - make up with a trowel, brows drawn on in a thin line, and burgundy highlights. If you ever see a bitch like that coming toward you with some scissors, run. Or kick her ass.
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