Haircut horror stories

I’ve been walking around with this picture of Kate Winslet in my back pocket. It’s a little wrinkled because her face has been pressed up against my left butt cheek all day.

I’m getting my hair cut tonight and when the stylist asks me how I want my hair to look, I’m going to whip out Kate’s picture and say, “Like this.”

The hairdresser will probably roll her eyes and stifle a laugh. And then she’ll explain that my hair is too thick, too dark, too dry and too frizzy to even attempt to emulate Kate’s soft, wispy, bouncy waves. Sigh.

I hate getting my hair cut. I really do. It’s not like I actually expect to leave the salon looking like a dark-haired Kate Winslet. I just want to leave looking better than when I arrived.

But it almost never works out that way. At best, I leave disappointed. At worst, I leave in tears. Well, not literally. I usually save the tears for when I get home. I’d be too embarrassed to cause a scene in public.

Plus, being surrounded by glamorous stylists makes me feel frumpy and unhip. Could they maybe just hide their stares of disapproval when I enter the salon with my chlorine-damaged hair up in a ponytail and my face free of make-up? I'm not *that* hideous.

Anyway, I’ve spent the last six months growing out one of the worst haircuts I’ve ever had. I was trying a new stylist so I told her exactly what I wanted: 1) No shorter than shoulder length, 2) If you’re going to give me layers, make sure they’re long enough so I can put my hair up in a ponytail.

She then proceeded to give me the exact opposite haircut. So I’m going back to my old hairdresser and taking Kate Winslet with me. The thing is, this isn’t the first time I’ve cheated on Nathalie and crawled back begging forgiveness.

The first time I was unfaithful, it was with a woman on Main Street who didn’t speak English. She seduced me with her cheap prices but left me with a head of hair that looked like it had been cut by a lawnmower. When I went running back to Nathalie, I could tell she was a little annoyed but she did her best to fix my hair.

We were happy together for a couple of years until temptation struck again. This time, the girlfriend of a friend opened up a hair salon two blocks from my apartment and I felt obligated to help support her new business.

Daisy left me with bad, stripy highlights and a cut I would spend the next two years growing out. But I kept going back out of a sense of loyalty. Besides, I had to pass their little salon every time I left the apartment. They would smile and wave at me as I walked by. I couldn’t exactly stop going.

So I was relived when they moved the store to a different neighbourhood last month. It gave me a good excuse never to go back. But it left me conflicted about making an appointment with Nathalie.

My inner dialogue went something like this: “Are you allowed to cheat on your hairdresser twice? Is she going to make me feel guilty? Is she going to take her resentment out on my hair? I could tell her I moved to Toronto for a few years. But what if she starts asking me questions about what I was doing in Toronto? No, too risky. I’m a bad liar. She’ll see right through me. Maybe she won’t even remember me. That’s dumb. Of course she’ll remember me. I don’t want to sit in that chair and feel bad for an hour. Maybe I should go to someone new. No, too risky. Nathalie was good. I liked her haircuts. Why did I ever cheat on her? I’m such an idiot.”

So I called and made an appointment for tonight. I figure a little time in the penalty box will be worth it if she can make me look a little bit like a brunette Kate Winslet. My fingers are crossed.