I haven’t had a haircut since I lived in the United States. Even then, I was so busy working and getting ready to move that I can’t even remember if my last haircut was in June or August! So, we are talking at least 5, perhaps 7 months of quality split-end collecting! I was basically wearing a hay bale on my head.
I finally mustered up the courage last week to call and make an appointment on the phone…in German. That was successful. At least something was.
Knowing that it could be challenging to explain what I wanted in German, I tapped into the old adage of “a picture is worth a thousand words”, and spent an afternoon gathering “good-hair-day” pictures of myself to take with. I felt pretty vain, but thought it would help.
When my Friseurin (hair stylist) arrived I showed her the pictures, used another Friseurin to help explain in English, and hoped that she understood. Time to wash. She gave me a fantastic head-massage which resulted in shampoo in my ears and half-way down my forehead, but she did a good job cleaning the suds up. Then she asked me to stand up while she dressed me in a gown. No joke. She put my arms through the sleeves, just like a coat, then tied it twice in front. (Were they nervous that my shirt was going to escape?) This was followed with a weighted neck-wrap that she draped over my shoulders to keep the gown in place. I couldn’t tell if I was at the hospital or getting an X-Ray at the dentist.
Time to cut. She pulled up a chair and sat down right beside me and started to comb. No hydrolic, spinning chairs, and no standing stylists. There was also no conditioner during the washing process, so even combing through my cobweb-thin hair was a challenge. A quick moment of déjà vu brought me to the side of the swimming pool as an 8 year old, being scolded by my mother, as she tugged and yanked, for failing to wash the chlorine out of my green-blond hair. The snip-snip of sharp shears ended that unpleasant memory.
I could feel the cold metal creep farther and farther up my neck. Why was she still cutting?! I told her that I wanted my hair to stop at my shoulders. As she inched closer and closer to my ears I feared that I had mixed up the words shoulder and chin. Then, she started to “texturize” the hair around my face… above my eyes! I know I didn’t say anything about eyes or foreheads. My German isn’t that bad. There she was, nevertheless.
Then came the moment every woman fears at the hair salon. As you are sitting in the chair, a big chunk of hair suddenly appears in the space between your face and the mirror, time freezes as you discern whether or not it is still attached to your head, and when you realize it has been erroneously severed from its follicles, you feel your stomach hit the floor before the hair even has a chance to settle in your lap.
She continued to chop and prune, trying to fix the un-fixable. Again, the déjà vu. This time I am in 6th grade and my mother has failed make a straight line of my bangs, resulting in hair so short that it stuck out like a tutu from my forehead. So, I think/hope the cutting is done as she blow dries and fusses and primps and sprays and seemingly procrastinates about declaring this the final product.
Her final response (in English): “Its short!” Yup…ya think…
I undressed from the X-Ray proof neck guard and double-tie straitjacket, paid, and took as many deep breaths as the Earth had air for. I got on my bike and let the wind blow through my hair.
Oh wait…that last sentence is a lie. My hair was too short for the wind to get any traction in.
Joe and I always comment about how awful our elevator is because there is a full-length mirror that you can’t not look in. Even on a good day, nothing kills the self-esteem more than that elevator. I don’t know why I didn’t take the stairs today. I really should have. I really really should have.
I immediately got into the shower, hoping that my worst nightmare would wash down the drain. After combing, spraying, blow drying, pomadeing, barretting, and pony-tailing, the mirror could not lie. I was sporting an amazing new projection from my scalp: a nice clump of really short bangs that refuse to do anything but stick straight out.
I can deal with a haircut that is way too short. Hair grows. Thank God.
The new bug-antenna, on the other hand, is going to be a real Arschgrobbler.