A Bad Bang
Work has been beyond insane lately. I mean, what kind of bullshit week leaves me no time to read Gawker, or Go Fug Yourself, or even the frikkin’ Times?
Answer: this week.
And yet vanity still wins out. On Monday, I caught a glimpse of my pallid white face burning under the vicious glow of my office’s fluorescents, and realized the most unflattering part of this picture was my hair, blown into a stringy, straw-textured mass, with the ill-conceived highlights I had put in in the fall showing their march towards split-ended death.
I looked away from my monitor for the first time in 7 hours to call my local salon and see if there was any way I could pop in for a cut. I thought, if there was enough time, I’d get a quick color in to minimize my wilting highlights.
I got a 7:00 slot with a stylist I used to see years ago. She had left my salon, but had recently returned. I have gotten some good cuts with her, so I felt confident to let her shear me.
I flatter myself to say it, but I think I look a little bit like Tina Fey, especially when I used to rock cat’s-eye glasses. For some reason, I feel like my hair and Tina Fey’s hair are texturally similar, and I did a GIS to see if I couldn’t go to the salon with some examples.
I liked this:
And this:
Sleek, cute, modern. Looks like they require a little work, but not like an army of highly paid stylists must appear every morning to do battle with nature.
I especially like her swoopy bangs. My hair has been so lank and lackluster lately, I thought bangs might be a nice touch, especially since my Photoshopped appearance (thanks, JFED) in Judas Priest has gotten people telling me I look good with bangs.
It’s a little mullet-tastic for my taste, but it did get me thinking . . .
I went through the trouble of printing out the pictures, and then managed to leave them sitting on my desk as I sprinted out of work to get back to Brooklyn on time
So I went to the salon pictureless. We got the color out of the way, and then the cutting began. She did the back first, and I wasn’t thrilled to see the razor-comb come out. Wispy isn’t really what I was shooting for, but she’s the expert.
Then she went for the bangs. I haven’t had bangs since 5th grade, when I had hideous ones that started somewhere near the back of my head and were worn like a comb over. Snip, and they were dangling halfway down my face.
“Oh, no, no. Let’s make them shorter.” Ah, the fatal words. Snip. Snip. Snipsnipsnipsnipsnip.
It’s never a good feeling when you look at your hairdresser, and the expression on her face is clearly saying “Oh, shit.”
She kept cutting, and the bangs kept getting shorter and more uneven. They refused to swoop, but instead stuck out like the tendrils of a sick plant. The stylist pulled out the pomade and tried to lacquer them into place, which just made matters worse, as the ragged pieces clumped together over my forehead. She sighed, pulled out a bobby pin, and said, “You’ll probably want to leave that on overnight.”
I haven’t had such a sinking feeling in a salon for years, since the time I decided I wanted to cut my hair short, and came out looking like a militant lesbian.
I slept badly, and woke Tuesday dreading having to style this mess myself. As it turns out, the hair isn’t that bad, but it’s more of a Rachel, circa 1992, than what I was going for.
Next time, I bring the bloody pictures in with me.
Answer: this week.
And yet vanity still wins out. On Monday, I caught a glimpse of my pallid white face burning under the vicious glow of my office’s fluorescents, and realized the most unflattering part of this picture was my hair, blown into a stringy, straw-textured mass, with the ill-conceived highlights I had put in in the fall showing their march towards split-ended death.
I looked away from my monitor for the first time in 7 hours to call my local salon and see if there was any way I could pop in for a cut. I thought, if there was enough time, I’d get a quick color in to minimize my wilting highlights.
I got a 7:00 slot with a stylist I used to see years ago. She had left my salon, but had recently returned. I have gotten some good cuts with her, so I felt confident to let her shear me.
I flatter myself to say it, but I think I look a little bit like Tina Fey, especially when I used to rock cat’s-eye glasses. For some reason, I feel like my hair and Tina Fey’s hair are texturally similar, and I did a GIS to see if I couldn’t go to the salon with some examples.
I liked this:
And this:
Sleek, cute, modern. Looks like they require a little work, but not like an army of highly paid stylists must appear every morning to do battle with nature.
I especially like her swoopy bangs. My hair has been so lank and lackluster lately, I thought bangs might be a nice touch, especially since my Photoshopped appearance (thanks, JFED) in Judas Priest has gotten people telling me I look good with bangs.
It’s a little mullet-tastic for my taste, but it did get me thinking . . .
I went through the trouble of printing out the pictures, and then managed to leave them sitting on my desk as I sprinted out of work to get back to Brooklyn on time
So I went to the salon pictureless. We got the color out of the way, and then the cutting began. She did the back first, and I wasn’t thrilled to see the razor-comb come out. Wispy isn’t really what I was shooting for, but she’s the expert.
Then she went for the bangs. I haven’t had bangs since 5th grade, when I had hideous ones that started somewhere near the back of my head and were worn like a comb over. Snip, and they were dangling halfway down my face.
“Oh, no, no. Let’s make them shorter.” Ah, the fatal words. Snip. Snip. Snipsnipsnipsnipsnip.
It’s never a good feeling when you look at your hairdresser, and the expression on her face is clearly saying “Oh, shit.”
She kept cutting, and the bangs kept getting shorter and more uneven. They refused to swoop, but instead stuck out like the tendrils of a sick plant. The stylist pulled out the pomade and tried to lacquer them into place, which just made matters worse, as the ragged pieces clumped together over my forehead. She sighed, pulled out a bobby pin, and said, “You’ll probably want to leave that on overnight.”
I haven’t had such a sinking feeling in a salon for years, since the time I decided I wanted to cut my hair short, and came out looking like a militant lesbian.
I slept badly, and woke Tuesday dreading having to style this mess myself. As it turns out, the hair isn’t that bad, but it’s more of a Rachel, circa 1992, than what I was going for.
Next time, I bring the bloody pictures in with me.
Labels: bangs, haircut, Judas Priest
posted by Liz at 10:29 AM
4 Comments:
I want to see the new cut!
I know the sinking feeling you speak of. I went to get an angled longish bob a couple of months ago, and the hairdresser (fluent in 5 languages, none of which was english) misunderstood and decided to angle the hair the wrong way! think of a reverse angle, mullet style! I was horrified!
goodluck with the new hair ;-)
Remember in college when Astor Disaster shaved my head and I looked like a thug? Good times!
"Mullet-tastic, militant lesbian, and tendrils of a sick plant" should all be added to hair style manuals & wikipedia definitions.
I'm sure you do look great. It takes a while to get used to a new look. Bang it up!
lol. isn't it so bizarre the effect hair has on us? I adore Tina Fey (and her hair) but "The Rachel" isn't soooo so bad, either. Glad everything worked out!
Post a Comment
<< Home