So I have a new hair style. Not so much of a style as a blunder, but heck, I allowed it to happen to me so it’s not as if I can blame it on some snip-happy stylist.
The extent of the damage had not hit home until I stepped inside my house. I shall spare you the details of the horrified look of my kids’ I was greeted with. The kindest comments ranged from toad-styled head to a teenager wannabe cut. I pointed out with a suitable pout that this was meant to be the smartest style for women over forty. Whatever. They both, in their huddled conference, generally agreed that the two month school break couldn’t have happened at a more opportune time (I pick them up after school every day).
My children mostly have been refusing to look in my direction. The husband is travelling and has been spared the shock. Yet.
A thorough post-disaster introspection pins the causation on my under developed salontiquette. I am an infrequent visitor to the salons; only once every few months when the ends of my hair start feeling more like the frayed hair of a doll well-mauled. I sit with sealed clueless lips when asked those dreaded words, ‘Ma’am, how would you want it styled?’ The most I can mutter is, ‘Do whatever you feel will look okay on me.’ Most dressers are too distracted by the techno music playing to pay any serious attention to my hair when their pairs of scissors are at work. No one, just no one had ever asked me, until last evening, ‘Ma’am, would you like to try the angled bob hairstyle?’
Duh. A disaster like this was waiting to happen.
It’s a bit of a blur that point on – the Google results on the iPad, moi feeling kicked that this man thinks I can carry this hip thing well, my enthusiastic go-ahead, the snip snip, the splash splash, the daze, the warm blast, the discreet preening, and the high.
The realization that all was, indeed, lost. The last of my snipped locks had been gobbled up by the fancy looking dust pan. Squirm as I did, they were gone forever.
My eyes, perhaps, broadcast the heart-break, for what followed was the incessant spirited convincing by our man that this style is the second best thing to have happened to me in life (the first being, having discovered the wow salon).
‘You don’t need to do much after each wash. A simple blow dry and ribboning with a round brush will do.’
I told him with a straight face that I don’t own a hair dryer. Seriously. I don’t.
I’m not sure if he believed it, but the lady manager was quick to point out that a vigorous finger run through (seven times) would work equally fine. I didn’t quite get how the wet straight fingers were a substitute for a fuming dryer with a round brush, but I said nothing. The pall of dismay had started sinking in by then. Like I said, it was not as if anyone had coerced me into it or someone’s scissors mistook a six inch long chop for a two inch one.
As a parting shot, she added, ‘It’s only hair, Ma’am. It’s bound to grow back. Four to five months max, and you’ll be back to what you were a while ago.’
Thanks for those reassurance, but no thanks.
This morning, the fluff of the blow dry was nothing more than a flat tease, my distinctive middle parting was back, and the supposedly longer front side locks that had been stretched out nice and long for that extra-hip funk had shrunk back into the rest of the mess.
I tried to look at myself from all sides; that didn’t get me far. My daughter offered to click photographs. That helped. For I discovered that there is this one– just that one – angle which makes my head look like that model’s in the angled bob Google search result. You don’t get to see the face, or the ears, or even the tip of the nose. And there has to be a peculiar zombie tilt of the head. That tilt is the key.
It’s a side profile, naturally.
So, World, until I grow that damn thing back, TALK TO MY TILT.