Today was our second (or first, depending on which way you look at it) open house. The good news is that we think we may have two interested buyers. One even came back later in the afternoon to look around again.
The bad news is that because J and I had to clear out of the house for three hours, I decided to get a haircut. On my way out the door I commented to J that this might not be a very smart thing to do until next weekend because February seems to have it out for me this year, and I really didn't want to chance another bad haircut. Sadly, I didn't listen to myself and proceeded to go to the not-cheap salon near our grocery store.
To set the stage, I need to go back three months to Christmastime. I had grown my hair out to below my shoulders for the first time since high school, and I decided that it was time for a change again. One day, against my better judgement, I let a mall salon stylist cut my hair. The cut looked fine for the first few days, but before long it became pretty obvious that one side was slightly longer than the other. Rather than finding a new stylist to fix it, however, I elected to go around for the next few months looking like someone who didn't know how to use a curling iron.
Today was my first haircut since that awful one, and I showed the stylist what had happened. She nodded, spent 10 minutes looking at my hair from all different angles before she sent me to be shampooed, and I was feeling pretty good about things. Then she started to cut. She cut and cut and cut, and before long I could clearly see that (yet again) one side was longer than the other. Not just a little longer, either. Like half an inch longer.
When I pointed it out to the stylist, she didn't quite believe me. Then I pushed my hair behind my ears (like I normally wear it) and it looked even worse. She snipped and snipped again and it still looked like crap. When I (again) showed her how awful it was, she started getting defensive, as though I was asking her to do something completely unorthodox and not at all what I'd originally told her I wanted. I didn't want to yell because I needed her to fix the problem, but I was thisclose to just losing it and telling her that I'd gotten far, FAR better haircuts from my sister when she was still in beauty school, much less from someone who was charging as much as she was.
Julia, if my hair still looks like ass next month when I come to visit, will you fix it for me?
Ninety minutes after I'd first walked in the door, she'd finally gotten it to a point where it was good enough for me to be seen on the street, but certainly not something I was happy about paying $50 for. I didn't even leave a tip, I was so mad. It wasn't even just that the cut had been bad, it was that she acted like I was completely out of line to expect that my hair wouldn't look like it was two different lengths when I wore it straight or pushed it behind my ears.
In any case, I think I'll just hide under the bed for the next few days and wait until March arrives to try anything else new.
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