Shame and a Haircut, Two Bits *

Once upon a recent time, I got a real haircut after years of doing it myself with clippers, because I am a grownup, and I want to look like I don't cut my own hair. It turned out to be a good decision, because I loved my new haircut.



It grew out really fast, though, and so I made an appointment with my new fabulous hairdresser, for she truly was fabulous, but I missed that appointment, because I had a terrible cold. She said that she would definitely be available to cut my hair before I spoke at Mom 2.0 Summit and to call when I was feeling better, but when I called, she didn't call back.

And then I called again, but she didn't call back again.

And then I called a third time, and I left a message that said: "I know this is, like, the third call in six hours, but I'm really nervous about this conference, and I love what you did with my hair."

And then I called a fourth time, and I left a message that said: "Hi, I'm that person who called three times yesterday. I swear I'm not crazy. I just really like you and what you did with my hair. And you said you'd cut it before I left."

And then I called a fifth time, and I left a message that said: "So, yeah, it's me again. At this point, I am that crazy client you are trying to avoid. I get that. But would you still cut my hair? I'm really nervous about this conference. Did I tell you that I'm really nervous about this conference? Because I'm really nervous about this conference."

And then I called a sixth time, and I left a message that said: "Wow, six messages in only two days. This is some kind of record. Call me!"

At this point, I was wishing I could break up with me as a client.



Cue day three.

I called a seventh time, and I left a message in this faux-breezy, we're-nearly-best-friends, familiar voice that said: "Wow! Crazy, huh? It's me again. I leave for my conference tomorrow, so if you can fit me in at all, that'd be great. I swear I'm not a stalker. Or weird. Okay, I might be weird, but I'm not stalking you, I swear it. I really swear it. Later!"

And then, I walked down to the hair salon to see if she was there, because that's totally what non-stalkers do.

Thankfully, she wasn't there, and thankfully she had been away for a few days, which explained the lack of returned calls, and probably the lack of a restraining order, so I got my hair cut by someone else who had a chair free at the salon. The cut wasn't really what the first hairdresser had done, but it sufficed for my trip.

It has now been more than a month since then, and my hair was really showing it this morning.



I knew I had to get it cut, but the only person who cuts it the way I like probably thinks I am a giant freak of a client who must be avoided at all costs, so I didn't want to try calling her again. What to do? What to do?

Clippers!



I used to do this kind of thing all the time, remember?

Plus, it's totally a normal thing to harrass a hairdresser through a series of phone calls in which you claim to be sane and also not stalking her, and then to decide to shave off all of your hair with clippers rather than face her again so you can have cool hair.

I chose the thickest attachment I could find in our clippers box, threw the switch, and buzzed all of my old cool haircut off.



I ended up clippering off a lot of hair, and I didn't resolve my shame issues, and they probably have a picture of me up at the salon as a warning to the other hairdressers, but I think everything turned out surprisingly alright. At least, I think I can leave the house without looking all shaggy and dishevelled.



The downside of this clippers decision, though, is that I was all hyped to be the kind of person who looked like she paid for her haircuts again, and now I've reverted to home-jobby buzzcuts.

Anyone know how to convince a person who hardly knows you that you are, in fact, totally sane, despite all evidence to the contrary?

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* The title of this entry is a play on the seven-note musical couplet shave and a haircut, two bits!

A Real Haircut, Because I'm a Grown-Up

This is me just prior to my first professional haircut in at least four or five years.



I know. It looks super short already, but I generally like to keep my hair close to home, which is within one or two inches long, and I usually cut it myself with a set of clippers and some pinking shears from my sewing box.

Why do I do it? It's simple math really. My clippers cost $26 five years ago. Professional haircuts would have cost me $40 x 12 months x 5 years to equal $2400. That's a savings of $2374!

I decided, though, that if I'm going to be the closing keynote at BlogWest in a week, it might help relieve some of my nervousness if I had a real haircut, so I called a local salon (that's Salon Fresz in Regina, Saskatchewan, and ask for Jesa for kick ass short hair). I felt nervous like I was going on a first date or like this was the first time I was venturing out into polite society after an extended stint of feral forest living, but I needn't have worried. Jesa fixed me up so my hair looks like I mean it rather than that I might have, oh, I don't know, cut my own hair with a pair of dull pinking shears.

And voilà!



I feel all attractive and growed up and stuff.

Please Tell Me That Bloody Carrot Is the Hair Colour of Cool Maturity

Before I got married in 2001, I panicked about life changes and ended up dyeing, then perming, then bleaching, and then dyeing my hair again all within the span of two weeks. I did all of that myself at home with ten-dollar boxes of chemicals. I'm lucky that it didn't all fall out before the wedding.

Years before, I shaved my head when I feared that a relationship was ending.

It seems that I use my hair to deal outwardly with the inward grief and fear of life changes, so what can you expect that I've been up to in the lead up to my TEDxRegina talk tomorrow afternoon? Overprocessing my hair, of course!



I dyed it first three days ago. It was a light reddish brown. It brightened my colour a bit, nothing too drastic, which is what I wanted. It was a little on the orange side, though, and I'd missed a patch on the side, so, of course, there had to be a re-dye.

I decided that I wanted to deepen the colour bit and maybe tone the red the down, so I chose a medium brown colour for the second dye job. I know it's iffy to dye one's hair again so soon, especially with a different colour than the first dye, but I'm nothing if not confident in my abilities when it comes to screwing with my own hair.

I applied it this morning, certain I was going to come out with a deeper, slightly more mature colour. I was going to look smokin' hot at TEDx!



Um, yeah, no.

The new colour, while definitely deeper, lacks the sobering effect of maturity for which I was hoping, unless BLOODY CARROT is the hair colour of cool maturity these days.

Something tells me it's not.



Fiddlesticks.

Hello, TEDxRegina! You'll know me by my orange glow.