I walked into a new salon last week. When I first moved to Baltimore, my boss recommended a hairdresser. He was a marvelous craftsman, but always cut my hair too short. I had to blow dry it and flip it out so I wouldn't look like an old lady. I LOVED how he did highlights (yes, I've become one of them, I even wear makeup on occasion), but I finally tired of the old lady haircuts and started asking other people for referrals. A sequence of hairdressers kept cutting horrible layers into my super fine, slightly wavy hair. I became a blow dryer slave or risked looking like I'd spent a night breakdancing on my head.
I told the new woman I was tired of getting my hair cut off, tired of blow-drying my hair, maybe we should just trim it a little, but if she had any suggestions I welcomed them. She said, "I've got the perfect style for you. You'll be able to air dry it and you'll look like the artist that you are." That sounded great. Now you should know that when I take off my glasses, I'm completely blind. I have to trust the hairdresser is obeying my every whim. Then the glasses go back on and I have to lie, "Looks great, thanks!" Somehow this woman took, "I'm tired of my hair being too short" as permission for this:
When I left I called my husband to warn him, "Honey, I look like an Elf. Not like from Lord of the Rings, like from a kid's book." The morning after the haircut, I woke up, brushed it back from my face and went downstairs, "Look, hon, I'm my brother". My brother is a handsome guy, I like him, but I'd rather not look like him! Yesterday at work I cracked up my co-worker when I walked in and morosely announced, "I look like a Beatle".
The sad truth though is I think I like the haircut.