Beer Me a New Hairdo, Please



You know it’s time for a new hairdo when you start to think that one of the hairstyles above might be an OK thing to try. (I’m thinking “Date-Bait” might be just the funky, youthful, asymmetrical look I’ve been needing.)

My hair is looking nasty lately. This happens to me about every 12 years. I get a perfectly fine haircut, the same haircut that I’d been getting for a while. It looks great right up until I pay and leave the salon, and then I look in my rear-view mirror and see the person on America’s Got Talent who everyone is so surprised has a beautiful voice. 

To add to my inner Susan Boyle, I’ve been having to wear my glasses because I’m within the last two weeks before my Lasik surgery. My glasses aren’t the cool, smart-girl, sassy, confident black glasses that you see on actresses who went to Harvard and those Pearl Vision ad models. I bought these glasses in 2001 at JCPenney Optical, the cheapest ones I could get, since I didn’t think I’d be wearing them much. Being a contact lens wearer, I only needed glasses to walk from the bathroom to bed, and back again. (Even the guy who sold me the glasses, who incidentally makes less than the clerks at the Gap, when I said I’ll take these, said, “. . . Really? Oh, OK . . . Wait, these?”)

About a year ago one of the nose pieces fell off, so these last 10 days of constant wear have left me with a small gouge in my left nose-bridge. Despite the metal-on-skin grip, the glasses keep slipping down my nose. Crookedly. In photos one lens gets all glarey and my daughter said, while looking at some pictures from Thanksgiving, “Look! Mom looks like she’s wearing an eye patch!” 

My glasses + my current hair = my kids telling their friends that I’m their mom’s ugly twin, the aunt that has come to visit for a long, long time.

I’ve decided to use this perfect storm of frump to start a new life with a new hair person. I’m grateful that I resisted the urge to Facebook-friend my current hair person, because then I’d be stuck going to her forever.

I don’t break up with hair people very well. (I know they’re called hair stylists, but if you knew anything about me, you’d know why I can’t ever have someone in my life who is called a stylist. That would just be ridiculous.) I’ve been known to move out of state before voluntarily switching hair people. I’m just really afraid I’ll run into them somewhere and have to explain why I left. I’m not good at confrontation.

“Do you want a color consult?” the new hair guy’s receptionist asked when I called to make an appointment. 

“Sure, why not,” I said. “I’d also like a cut consult, a bangs seminar, and a how-to-care-more-about-what-the-back-of-my-head-looks-like pep talk. Plus anything else he’s good at.”

That’s right. I’m going with a guy this time. I’m unabashedly sexist when it comes to hair people and I am convinced that men cut hair better than women. I know there are probably some very wonderful female hair people who wield a mean blowdryer, but my personal experience has been that most men go into hair careers because they consider themselves serious, artistic designers of hair. Most women go into hair careers because cooking was filled at the vo-tech.

His name is Dino ($), he has an Italian accent ($$), the salon is named after him ($), and there’s valet parking ($$$). I’m afraid I’m into serious money here. I might have to start calling him my hair stylist.

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