Hair

My hair and I have not always gotten along with each other. For most of my adult life (and indeed, for most of my childhood too) I have had a hair stylist - someone to serve as mediator between me and my hair. I got my first perm in fourth grade. Eventually (which is to say a decade later) I realized that rather than giving me thick, wavy hair, perms made me look like a poodle. A poodle with fine, thin hair. In college, I switched my focus to hair dye. I wanted to be a red-head. Eventually (which is to say five years later) I realized that red hair dye fades so much that my roots never looked much different from the dyed parts. I was paying more money than I care to think about to dye my shower water. When we moved to the Chicago area, I still had a stylist, because I couldn't quite shake the notion that my hair was unusually bad and needed really expensive attention to make it acceptable. But when that stylist tried to convince me that highlights and lowlights were just what I needed to make my hair seem thicker, I stood firm and refused.

Moving to CollegeTown was the tipping point. We cancelled Netflix, found the cheapest internet plan possible, got rid of our cell phones. We were making all of these changes for financial reasons that turned out not to be that hard to live with. How could I possibly justify a $40 haircut? So I went to Great Clips. And overall, it's been good. Some of my cuts have just been serviceable, but one of my haircuts there ranked among my best haircuts ever.

Which brings me to last Sunday, when the only angst I felt about heading to Great Clips was over the fact that I never have anything to talk about with the 20-year-olds who work there. I dropped in without an appointment, like I always do, and I told the first-available stylist the same thing I always do: "I'd like a bob, about jaw-length. A little bit of layering to add some volume." She asked, "Do you want it to be shorter in the back and get longer as you reach the front?" Other stylists there had done a little bit of that kind of shaping, with no ill effects, so I said, "Maybe a little, but honestly, I just want a bob that I can comb in the morning and not worry about."

By the time I could sense how short she was making the layers in the back, it was too late. I told her one more time, "I really just want a bob," but the damage was done. The back of my head was way, way layered. The front came to two sharp points. Staring in the mirror once I got home (she didn't give me a hand mirror to look at the back the way they usually do), I figured out who it was that she was trying to make me look like:
People, that's Posh Spice. If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, and especially if you've met me in real life, you know that I am not Posh Spice. I am nothing like Posh Spice. The Husband? Nothing like David Beckham. And yes, I do consider that a good thing.

I absolutely couldn't deal with the long pieces by my face, so I cut them. From the front, it looks like I got the plain old bob that I asked for. Looking in the mirror, with pieces of fine, thin, dishwater blonde hair in the sink in front of me, I realized who it is that my hair is actually capable of resembling:
I am self-aware enough to know that in most areas of life, I am way more like Beezus than Ramona. But hair-wise, I'm Ramona all the way. And honestly? In pretty much all areas of life, I'd much rather be a Quimby than a Spice Girl.