The Case for the $100 Haircut

There are two different classes of women when it comes to getting a haircut.  There’s the class that always goes to the same trusted, expensive stylist every three months and comes out looking stunning (shall we call them the upper class?)  Then there are the rest of us who would drive to another state if it meant getting to use our 15% off coupon.  This particular class of women that I belong to generally chooses the thrifty hair salon simply because we’re afraid to spend a third of our annual income on a cut that we’re most likely going to hate.  It’s a sort of epidemic, this female fear of bad haircuts.  I’d be willing to bet that millions of women’s haircuts each year lead to undiagnosed depression, recurrent visits to the hair salon for “touch-ups,” and an increasingly frightened female population.

My disastrous, traumatic experience that contributed to my absolute fear of haircuts happened when I was quite young.  It was 1993, I was seven years old, and Demi Moore was at the height of her popularity.  I can’t say I was a huge fan, being only seven at the time, but I did love her hair.  The specific cut I am referring to was sported by the famous actress in such films as “Ghost” and “A Few Good Men.”  Nevermind that in the latter movie her character was in the Navy.  Needless to say, it was a very short cut for a girl.  Also of note, only women with pencil-sized figures and needle-sized necks (ie Demi Moore and Natalie Portman) are able to pull off such a look.  My mother tried to convince me that the haircut of my choice might not turn out looking like that of the model in the picture book, but I would hear none of it.  My sweet mother with her liberal attitude towards parenting believed in letting me choose my own style.  Thanks Mom.  I have you to thank for letting me do this to myself:

I know what you’re thinking. That bow’s not fooling anyone.  I wasn’t especially horrified with the cut at first.  Yes, it was very short, but I was a tom-boy and frankly, it made things easier.   It wasn’t until I went to summer school that year with all new teachers and classmates that the traumatic experience unfolded.

I was washing my hands in the girls bathroom when a female classmate of mine screamed, “Eww!  There’s a boy in the girls bathroom.”  I tried to protest but it was clear by this young girl’s disgust that short of pulling my pants down for proof, there was no convincing her otherwise.  All of the screaming had caused quite a crowd to form and eventually a member of the staff came in to intervene.

“Young man, what is your name?”  At this point I could tell I was fighting an uphill battle.

“Jordan, “ I replied.

“And just what are you doing in the girl’s bathroom?  Get out of here this instant!”

Ok that hurt.  I ran out of the room crying.  How could a reasonable adult not even ask to hear my side of the argument?  Also, I LOOKED LIKE A BOY!  That teacher would later apologize to me after learning the truth.  As if I hadn’t suffered enough humiliation.

Anyway, that’s about all it took for me to become deathly afraid of ever getting my haircut again.  Such drastic measures led to me looking like Cher for a good part of my high school career:

Regardless, my incessant fear of haircuts has followed me since that fateful day in 1993.  I still dread going to the stylist.  I still put it off and complain about my hair until my husband begs me to go in for a trim lest he cut it off himself while I sleep.  I still scour the phone book for coupons to make the process of paying for a haircut I may not like that much less excruciating.

It wasn’t until recently that I began to question this last policy.  I was always going to the nearest discount salon to ensure I wasn’t overpaying for a bad cut only to end up repaying for a new haircut.  Sure, most stylists had the policy of fixing any unsatisfied customer’s hair for free, but I wasn’t exactly eager to give said stylist a second chance at my scalp with the knowledge that they weren’t getting paid for their services.  So, inevitably, I would find an even cheaper salon and ask someone to fix it without compromising length, which every girl knows is impossible.  Meanwhile, I was nearing the cost of an “expensive” haircut by my standards and was looking increasingly like a young Bon Jovi.

By this logic, and according to my husband, it would make more sense to go ahead and pay the expensive stylist to do wonders on my hopeless mess of hair in the first place since the price ends up being the same.  It does make sense.  I could find a stylist who takes appointments (a concept unknown to someone like me who frequents the walk-in salons at department stores).  I could build a relationship based on trust and past performance.  I could know what to expect every time I walked in and my fear of haircuts would eventually be alleviated with time and countless positive experiences.  There’s only one flaw to this theory.  What if I hate the $100 cut?  (Insert the sound of my husband slapping his forehead in defeat).

What Does Your Bumper Sticker Say About You?

We’ve all seen them.  There are the ski bum cars that are loaded with so many bumper stickers you have to wonder whether the owner even reads the ones they put on or if they’re just going for some kind of a record.  Then there’s the Lexus with the mild-mannered man-with-glasses driving that was kind enough to destroy the paint on his $50,00 car to display a sticker claiming his child is an honor student.  But what do these bumper stickers really say about the people that proudly present them?  Read below to find out:

This bumper sticker belongs to a liberal, fun-loving, agnostic hippy who just wants everyone to get along.  They are not apt to road rage or honking.  In fact, when provoked, they prefer to wave and smile.  Most likely seen on a Subaru or a Toyota Prius.

This bumper sticker belongs to an immature male, or a sexually confused female who is acting like an immature male.  No matter what the subject of Calvin’s piss (whether it be a sport’s team or a make of car) this statement is meant to condone a sort of elitism (go figure).  Most likely seen on a lifted pick-up truck.  Also look for a ball sack hanging from the tow hitch.

This bumper sticker belongs to a family (duh).  Most likely this was the mother’s idea as a cute way to show off.  Look honey, now we can gloat about our two perfect children and house pets for the rest of the world to envy.  The father has either gone along with it because his wife suggested it, or because it was a convenient way of keeping count.  Most likely seen on a minivan.  In fact, if not found on a minivan, take a picture.  That’s a rarity.

CAUTION: Weapons are aboard this vehicle.  No matter how slow the old man driving this automobile is going on a busy highway, DO NOT attempt to pass. This bumper sticker is proudly presented simply because the second amendment wouldn’t fit.  Most likely seen on an older pickup or a creepy van.

Morning Dance Routine

My morning started pretty typically.  My tangled brunette hair (I’m being careful not to use the word tousled so as not to imply sexiness) stuck to my face as I wandered into the kitchen in my Frankenstein-like gait that always accompanied a good night’s rest.  I grumbled something to my husband to let him know I was still alive and began to make myself some breakfast.  I prefer to have a moment of peace in the morning before rushing to start my day.  There’s something very zen about it.  So, two hours of you-tube later, I was ready for my day to begin.

I decided to start by tidying up the house a bit.  The kitchen looked in disarray from last night’s meal.  It’s really hard to do the dishes after dinner when Netflix awaits you on the Xbox.  I strapped on my ipod and began my ritual cleaning duties as any healthy, functioning adult does every three months.

Naturally, I had to stop cleaning any time a good dancing song came on, which was pretty often as I had it tuned to my 80’s mix.  Needless to say this is not the most efficient way of cleaning, however I highly recommend it.  Aside from the fact that dancing is a great workout, it’s also an excellent boost to the ego.  The moment I attempted to moonwalk on my kitchen floor with a plate in one hand, a towel in the other, and my head banging to the rhythm of the righteous electric guitar, I knew I was a badass.

I often contemplate videotaping these dance sessions as I’m fairly certain well known artists would pay good money to learn some of my moves.  I grew up without the luxury of MTV so I’m pretty confident my efforts are unique to say the least.  I’m particularly proud of a flittering hand movement of mine that I try to incorporate into every performance.  The only way to describe it is a Parkinson’s patient trying to emulate a little birdie flying away.  Really, it’s gold.

You’re probably wondering what selfless, saint-like soul was willing to marry me.  Well, it’s a long story but the important thing is we are living a full and happy life.  In my defense, he did say he was having a good time on that first date before I slipped the potion into his drink.

Meanwhile, it was getting near noon and I still had yet to shower.  I don’t believe in showering before cleaning; it’s like dressing up to go to a gay bar.  What’s the point?  So not only did I have the pale, bloated face of someone who just woke up, but I was drenched in sweat from the morning’s dance workout.  My hair resembled that of a country music star ready to receive her award circa 1991.  My excellent choice of pajamas (men’s shorts and gray t-shirt I got at a gift shop in Canada) portrayed my passion for style and demonstrated my belief in fashion over comfort.  I knew my breath must have been awful because even my dog wouldn’t kiss me.  This coming from the same animal that likes to roll in dead things and eat feces.  I’m not going to lie, it kind of hurt.  Maybe it’s time for another ego-boosting dance session.