The Many Faces Of Me

So y'all know me pretty well. Let's admit that I'm vain about my looks. I'm not high maintenance, in fact I like going all natural most days of the week (saving up my pretty days for the days that count like Sundays or days where I see potential intrigues), but I know that I'm gorgeous and I won't deny it. In fact, I'll probably remind you of it several times a week when we're having a conversation and you seem to need reminding.

In summary, I'm so vain, I KNOW this song is about me.

Pssh. Yeah. Yesterday, my vanity took a major hit. In the form of a puerile 20-year-old someone allowed a pair of scissors and a haircutting license. Shame on the person that allowed her to graduate the DATC college of beauty. I can say all these mean things now, because believe me I did not say them to her face and I should have.

I knew that we were in trouble when she started talking smack about sister missionaries. For future reference, o real friends, if you really want to piss me off tell me that sister missionaries went on missions because they had nothing better to do. I definitely didn't have anything better to do besides graduating from college and starting a promising writing career (I'm being optimistic here) and taking over the world: basically just sitting around on my butt all day. Yeah right. Anyways, by the time I got over that conversation and noticed what was going on with the preschooler wielding scissors it was too late.

The hair growing from the crown of my head was cut into a bowl shape. No subtle gradations, no framing around my face. One disgusting 3.5 inch shelf of hair that hit me above my cheekbones. The rest lay in long pieces down my neck to my shoulders. Say it with me now: #*@! that's a mullet.

Pardon my french, but I wish it had been around when I was choosing a hairdresser.

I stared at myself in shock in the mirror, and when Ms. Mulletmaster turned her back I shot withering glances at my mother to let her know that I WAS NOT HAPPY. (*You're so vain...*)

Then the hairdresser of all things poodle showed me the back, which in all fairness was pretty cute, and that was the only positive thing I could think of to say: "Yes, the back is cute. But do you think we could shorten the bottom layer a bit? I feel like the gap is a bit too big."

Do you know what she said? "The problem with doing that is if you shorten that layer, it's going to look like a mullet."

Silence. Chirping. Grinding of teeth. Mental images of me punching her in the face.

"But that's kind of how I feel about it now."

So she shortened that layer. And I was right, it did ease the overall mullet-drama feeling. Then she "blow-dryed" my hair and by that I mean she passed the blowdryer over it a couple of times and let it air dry into a hot mess.

I got out of there as fast as possible. I started yelling as soon as the door shut about how I looked like a 50-year-old from the seventies.

My mom told me to stop because she was going to pee her pants she was laughing so hard.

In summary, as I've gone through the 36 hours following my hair drama, my hair has reminded me of several different things. Here's a list.

a 50-year-old seventies mamma
a hobo version of Farah Fawcett
a poodle
a skater boy growing out his hair
a hockey player
a mushroom
someone wearing earmuffs...oh wait, that's hair. My bad.

But my personal favorite came from my sister.

"You look like a feminist. You know, the granola kind from Washington."

No offense to all the granola types out there. Or poodles.

But the truth is the truth.

Pray for my hair, friends. While you're at it, pray for all the starving children around the world too. I wouldn't want to be culpable of stealing their prayers, but I'm also in dire need. I might die from a sudden and massive withdrawal...from vanity. And despite my current fugliness, I like to think that I would be missed.

I'd post pictures, but I'm not sure how to get them off my phone and onto the computer. As soon as I figure it out, I'll post some.