Stylin’ With Poodles
I don’t think there is such a thing as a bad stylist. However, some of them just don’t get me. They almost never do what I ask them to do. It may be that “just a trim” is not in their vocabulary. Either that or they think they are doing me a favor by ignoring my request.
I can sense their thoughts as I walk in their door and they get a look at my unruly locks: “Jumpin’ Jimminy! I have to fix that!”
They ask me how I want it cut. because they have to. Then it’s as if they are on a mercy mission to remedy whatever hair malfunctions they perceive I have. When they’re done, it looks nothing like what I asked for.
There have been many times that I have walked out of a hair salon and immediately headed home to wash what hair I had left. Then I would bully it into some semblance of “my world” order.
Just because some popular celebrity insists on walking around with a sheepdog on her head, that does not mean that everyone wants to look like that.
Sheepdogs do not fit my personality nor flatter my face. Besides, in my opinion, sheepdogs are not meant to be seen on one’s head.
You have to watch what you say to a stylist as well. They can get bored with the same thing every day and decide to experiment with your hair. They only need the slightest provocation.
I have very straight hair in the front and sides of my head and naturally curly hair in the back. It’s like my head couldn’t decide which look to go with. I made the mistake of mentioning this to a stylist and then had the audacity to ask whether she thought I should get a body wave to even it out.
“Oh no, no, no!” she said as if I was a dog who had just missed the potty paper. “Your hair is plenty curly.” Then she went about proving her point using enough gel, mouse and hairspray to sink a battleship. When she was done, my head looked like a cross between Old Iron Sides and a poodle.
On the other hand, I could’ve taken a direct hit from a nuclear warhead and it merely would’ve bounced off my head. But let’s be honest, I hope that particular benefit never comes in handy.
I meant to get home to my shower before anyone saw me. Unfortunately, my husband was home when I arrived.
You know that look one gets when one is confronted by an object that is unrecognizable: like a bug in one’s soup? That’s the look he had on his face for a split second.
My husband is a veteran husband and is well-versed in the art of being a good one. That look was quickly replaced by one that transmitted the correct vibes I would expect to see if I actually wanted to look like a member of the Jackson Five.
I laughed and told him to relax. At the risk of clogging my shower drain with massive amounts of hair products, I was going to take a shower. He looked relieved.
When I emerged, I was simply me with shorter hair. It would be a while before I tried a new stylist.