Posted on February 4, 2015
Guys. I made a bad decision this week.
It all started Monday morning, when my husband said he wanted us to get haircuts on his day off. It was very sweet of him; he knows I don’t like driving around our new neighborhood very much, and it’s been six months since my last haircut. So, while he chatted with the barber about the Super Bowl, I was on my phone trying to find a salon nearby.
Like many women, I do have a certain place that I prefer to get my hair done. It’s called Reflections of You (or ROY), and the stylist I had last time was fabulous. Unfortunately, they’re closed on Mondays. Oh well.
It is very difficult to find a salon that will cut my hair for less than sixty dollars (plus the tip)–so you can bet that I jumped at the opportunity to get it done for thirty! The website said that it was a hair-and-nail salon, which didn’t seem like a problem. A lot of hair salons do other things. I called and made an appointment for noon.
This is where the nightmare begins.
As is typical of nail salons (in my experience), the salon was run by three sweet Asian ladies… whose English left a bit to be desired. But that was okay. Except…
Apparently, the woman on the phone thought I wanted a pedicure, not a woman’s hair cut. Of course, she was very embarrassed when she realized her blunder, and promised that I would be next in line when the hairstylist was free. I didn’t mind waiting; after all, I was kind of a last-minute appointment to begin with.
It turned out that they had another woman booked for the next haircut slot. So, Ryan and I waited. As I watched the haircut in progress, my stomach sank. This woman–for her many merits, I’m sure–only knew how to do a standard straight-hair cut. I whispered to Ryan that we could leave if he wanted to, that I was nervous about how my hair would turn out if I got it done here–but we’d already waited an hour, so sneaking out wasn’t exactly an option anymore.
“Would you like me to paint you nails while you wait?” one of the nail specialists offered. “I do for you, no charge. Choose one color, I paint you nails.”
I was still uneasy, but the allure of a free manicure was too much for me. I was weak, seduced by a cheap haircut and a free manicure!
So I went through with it.
Now, if you’ve never seen a curly haired woman get her hair cut, let me explain how it’s supposed to go. The stylist is supposed to cut the hair while it’s dry, shaping according to the present volume and texture. Then they wash the hair, put product in it while it’s still wet, and never, ever, ever use a hairdryer without a diffuser. Best case scenario, they put the woman under one of those round heater things that you tend to think of older women who are dying their hair under. Once the hair is dry (or reasonably dry), the stylist will do some touch-ups, if necessary. “Work what you’ve got” is a mantra among stylists who know curly hair.
This is not what happened to me.
She washed my hair first, combed all the curl out, and measured the pieces as if they’d stay even after my hair dried. (Thankfully, she only took off about half an inch, so it’ll be a reasonable length after I get it corrected.) She dried my hair with an open blow-dryer, and put in the tiniest bit of product imaginable. On my irreparably frizzy, dry hair.
You can call me a diva. I wouldn’t blame you. But I haven’t had a haircut that made my head look like it sprouted a pyramid since the Nineties, and I was hoping I never would again.
Ryan took one look at it and said I needed a new haircut.
I tied my hair back as soon as we exited the salon, assuring him that it would be fine once I washed it and did it up properly.
I was wrong. It got worse.
Look at that volume! Woosh!
“But Twirly,” you’re saying, “curly girls always have excessive volume.” Well, I’ll have you know that I have (or had) tamed the curly ravaging beast! On a normal day, my hair looks fabulous–springy, but not floofy. Relaxed, but not limp. Behold!
See? No pyramid. No frizz, even. Dang, that was a good hair day.
The moral of the story is this: Never trust a straight haired woman to cut curly hair, no matter how nice she is.
Posted on February 2, 2015
Those of you who followed me at my old blog have read some of this. Apologies. Some things bear repeating.
Confession: I never wanted a blog.
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with having a blog, really. My best friend has a blog, and it’s lovely (check her out; she rocks). It just wasn’t for me.
My discomfort with blogging dates back to high school. I briefly considered getting a blog back then, and ran the idea by my best friend (read “the guy I was madly in love with”). He discouraged it, fearing that I’d be too emotionally open. He thought my writing might be too vulnerable and personal, and therefore inappropriate for a public forum. At the time, he was probably right. Since then, I’ve learned the difference between journal entries and expository writing.
As I got older, the skepticism increased. Why bother getting a blog? Nobody would read it. What was the point of crafting if I was going to release it into the great void? It would be no more than vapor. I wanted my words to be heard, to mean something–to change the world! Plus, most of the blogs I’d seen were shoddily written first drafts; unedited, with little time spent on them. The writers clearly didn’t take pride in their work (or so I thought at the time). So, why bother joining their ranks? I’d get published the traditional way: with an agent, through a publishing house, and, most importantly, in print. Maybe I still will, but not yet.
Then I started Confessions of a Twirl. It was liberating. I could write about whatever I wanted in smallish bursts, and I could write like I was talking to someone. It didn’t matter so much if anyone was reading it–although a spike in views is always gratifying. I found that I enjoyed being a blogger, even in its minutia. I started reading about how to be a professional blogger, started talking it over with my husband and best friend, mentioned it to a brother-in-law–and here I am. My very own big girl blog. Wish me luck!