A man and his hair
You have no idea how hard it is to get a haircut out here on the tundra.
The first person who cut my hair after I moved to town was a short, squat, burly man, all hair and tattoos and piercings, whose belt of chains rattled as he moved. The whole time he cut my hair, he chomped on the butt of the same cigar and dribbled ashes around the chair like incense. I only asked him for a little trim around the sides, because even if it turned out he was a decent barber, I felt like he wasn't the type to really bellyfeel my twinky prissy queen aesthetic.
The next person.... O, my friends, learn from my mistakes. Never trust your hair to a midwestern woman with split ends and a bad perm. First of all, she had clearly never cut Asian hair before. After she ran her comb through my hair, she let out a surprised little "Oh!" and then spent the next uncomfortable minute prodding and poking my head. Then she stood back, cocked her head to one side, then picked up her scissors and said, "Okay, well, let's see what happens."
Should this ever happen to you, stand up and walk to the door. Do not look back. Do not ever look back.
The third person was a rail-thin bobble-headed woman who was 18, 19 tops, who told me in that strange teenage uptalk accent that "I'm not? Really? A stylist? I think? Of myself? As an Artist? Of Hair?" And frankly, this was a pretty decent cut, especially given the horror that was the one before. But there was the unmistakable miasma of marijuana smoke dripping from her pores, I figured this was more chance than talent that guided her scissors, so I never went back.
Months, I tell you, months I spent looking for a decent haircut in town. Eventually I decided I needed to start paying more than $30 for a cut if I was ever to be happy with my hair again, and I started calling around to salons to find people who actually had experience with my type of hair and style.
My salvation was a salon on the north side of the Square. The person who answered the phone was so gay there was a lisp in "Hello", and I thought to myself, "Oh! It's my people! My people can cut hair! I am saved!"
Mary. You have no idea.
I knew from my first meeting with him that this was the one.
"How do you want your hair?"
"Well, it's hard to explain. I want the sides really tight, but the top should be kind of spikey. Except not spikey, more like really piecey, and not pointy, you know?"
"Sure. You want anime hair."
"Yes! Yes, that's it, exactly! You get it!"
"Of course. Let me get my razor."
"You'll razor cut me? Nobody else in town would use a razor."
"I'm a professional. Do you want me to wax your eyebrows while you're here?"
"I... I think I love you."
The first person who cut my hair after I moved to town was a short, squat, burly man, all hair and tattoos and piercings, whose belt of chains rattled as he moved. The whole time he cut my hair, he chomped on the butt of the same cigar and dribbled ashes around the chair like incense. I only asked him for a little trim around the sides, because even if it turned out he was a decent barber, I felt like he wasn't the type to really bellyfeel my twinky prissy queen aesthetic.
The next person.... O, my friends, learn from my mistakes. Never trust your hair to a midwestern woman with split ends and a bad perm. First of all, she had clearly never cut Asian hair before. After she ran her comb through my hair, she let out a surprised little "Oh!" and then spent the next uncomfortable minute prodding and poking my head. Then she stood back, cocked her head to one side, then picked up her scissors and said, "Okay, well, let's see what happens."
Should this ever happen to you, stand up and walk to the door. Do not look back. Do not ever look back.
The third person was a rail-thin bobble-headed woman who was 18, 19 tops, who told me in that strange teenage uptalk accent that "I'm not? Really? A stylist? I think? Of myself? As an Artist? Of Hair?" And frankly, this was a pretty decent cut, especially given the horror that was the one before. But there was the unmistakable miasma of marijuana smoke dripping from her pores, I figured this was more chance than talent that guided her scissors, so I never went back.
Months, I tell you, months I spent looking for a decent haircut in town. Eventually I decided I needed to start paying more than $30 for a cut if I was ever to be happy with my hair again, and I started calling around to salons to find people who actually had experience with my type of hair and style.
My salvation was a salon on the north side of the Square. The person who answered the phone was so gay there was a lisp in "Hello", and I thought to myself, "Oh! It's my people! My people can cut hair! I am saved!"
Mary. You have no idea.
I knew from my first meeting with him that this was the one.
"How do you want your hair?"
"Well, it's hard to explain. I want the sides really tight, but the top should be kind of spikey. Except not spikey, more like really piecey, and not pointy, you know?"
"Sure. You want anime hair."
"Yes! Yes, that's it, exactly! You get it!"
"Of course. Let me get my razor."
"You'll razor cut me? Nobody else in town would use a razor."
"I'm a professional. Do you want me to wax your eyebrows while you're here?"
"I... I think I love you."
posted by Peter at 8:23 PM
5 Comments:
Oh honey. I think I love you, too. You and your pretty, pretty head.
I feel your haircut pain, there, with those first few cuts. I've had a couple of awful experiences, myself--most recently, a highlight disaster. I went to an unfamiliar salon, and asked for subtle highlights. Now, my hair's dark brown, so anything in the light-brown-to-ginger range would've done nicely. But the hairdresser seemed to think the Pepe le Pew look was more my thing, and gave me these terrible ash-blonde streaks. I took one look, groaned, and said "Nah, forget it--just make it all one colour."
You can guess what happened, right?
Yeah. She dyed my whole HEAD blonde. I just about died on the spot. It looked ridiculous. I had to fix it myself, in the end. What a disaster!
It must be the time of year for reflecting on haircuts: I wrote a holidailies post on this, too.
Finding a new hairstylist is a nightmare. I so feel your pain.
Plin - do you have someone good? I am picturing myself saying "neutral brown with violet and copper highlights" to a stylist in Harrisburg...and it's not a pretty picture.
Sasha, I finally do have someone good--but it's taken me a year and a half to find her.
Although, the first guy I went to would not have had a problem with your color request, at all. You just would have had to accept the only haircut he knew how to give.
Post a Comment
<< Home