While cashing a check at Wells Fargo I happened to glance across the street, and realized for the first time that there was a hair salon sitting on the corner. It is not one of those tiny "Pretty Hair and Nail" places run by Asian women imported to this country when the Communists came to power, where one constantly worries the language barrier is a hinderence and English words are not sufficiently describing the look you are paying eight dollars to recieve. While you can, on occasion, get fabulous manicures (the Vietnamese are especially adept at nail art) and flawless eyebrows, these strip mall institutions rarely provide the hairstyle I desire. I much prefer the slick salons with polished floors and chrome decor and at least one stylist named Vic, who holds his fine-toothed comb with a pinkie in the air and can work magic on any head save his own, which is losing hair at an alarming rate, forcing Vic to sport a shaved head that shines under the bright lights, especially when he is patiently working in highlights for some young lady's prom.
Unfortunately I did not get Vic, but a friendly woman named Andrea took control. First she cut ten inches to be made into wigs for the cancer kids, bundling a fistful of dark curls with a rubber band. It was very strange to run my hands down my back and find that my constant companion since junior high would no longer bounce behind me all day long, smacking people in the face if I whirled too suddenly. Andrea and I discussed fragrances as she shampooed and conditioned my hair - she was quite fond of several Victoria's Secret perfumes, most of which are naturally discontinued. As she added layers to the back of my head and gave me a thin fringe across my forehead, she commented again and again on the health of my hair, which surprised me as I'd always thought of it as brittle, dry, and all-in-all quite straw-like. However, if Andrea is to be believed my hair is rather like an Olympic athelete and in the peak of condition, although it is possible that it has already peaked at a youthful age and has nothing but decades of slow decline and memories of its former glory to look forward to.
Poor Andrea thought it would be wise to blowdry my hair sot hat I needn't walk about with water dripping down my neck. Alas! Alack! Even with a diffuser my hair frizzed up to the moon. It is rather like when a blowfish puffs himself up with air. Poof! His deadly spikes and my lethal curls stick out in every direction.
But really, when one looks as though one sticks her finger in electrical outlets for amusement, one must laugh and show off! I drove straight to Seanie's house and let him mock my new style, because that is what boys are for.
It has settled down somewhat. The bangs aren't quite thick enough for my tastes and my hair's still quite bouffant, and when I wear my glasses I look quite silly. However, when I've got makeup (the flashier the better!) and contacts in I look like a fashion-forward, slightly inebriated runway model, and I can live quite happily with that.
Photos to come, eventually.