haircut

So. I got a post break up haircut on Sunday. Because that is what every woman does when her heart is crushed. Besides eat break up bacon. And drink wine. Right?



Right?



I was visiting Carol, my very best friend EVER, when I mentioned I wanted to cut my hair.

"Oh, I know of the PERFECT person cut your hair! She did a great job with mine!", she said.

And Carol's hair looked awesome. And I trusted Carol. That's just what bosom buddies do.


She drove all the way across town to her stylist. We walk in the door, and the stylist greets us emphatically. A little too emphatically.





IN CHINESE.




"Chee Ching Cho Woo Chow Mein!", she says.





OH. MY. WORD.


This woman DOES NOT EVEN SPEAK A WORD OF ENGLISH. And this woman IS GOING TO CUT MY HAIR OFF.



I turn arond and practically run Carol over as I try to escape what could be the WORST POSSIBLE MISTAKE of my life.

"Are you crazy?!" I hiss, "She doesn't even speak ENGLISH!"

"Just TRUST me, she will do a great job!" Carol said encouragingly.

Listen. I have known Carol for the better part of almost half my life. I love her dearly. And I'd trust her with anything. If she told me she spent the day chilling with Michael Jackson and Jimmy Hoffa, I'd believe her.

But this is my HAIR we are talking about. And that woman cannot communicate in English. I don't think I could use six week's worth of sick time for a bad hair cut.

At this point, the stylist is ushering me toward her chair, omniously weilding very sharp scissors. Scissors that she will use to CUT OFF MY HAIR. I am not kidding when I say I was scared.

I choose a few conservative, stylish photos for her to replicate. She responds by waving her hands around and shrieking "NO! NO! NO! NO!!" Does she point to others that she might approve of? No. Instead, she just picks up her scissors and starts snipping. Chunks CHUNKS of my hair are falling to the ground.

I begin to pray. "Dear Lord, please do not let me look like Florence Henderson. I promise to never feed my Sunday School kids to much sugar ever again if you please just answer this one prayer!" Then a thought hit me. I could end up with a KATE GOSSELIN.

I start panicking.

My mind is conjuring up every poorly photographed image of Kate Gosselin I have ever seen, along with that woman at the library with that weird dyed mullet.

"Okay!" "Done!", the Chinese woman says.

I shut my eyes and cringe.

She turns me around in the chair for me to look at my reflection.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.

"LOOK!" , she demands.

I look in the mirror and see SHORT HAIR and layers and layers and BANGS. (OH MY WORD SHE GAVE ME BANGS. I have not had bangs since my sister gave them to my in the seventh grade.)



And I LOVE IT.







That's hot.

But I look hotter.