I finally went to a salon this week and had my hair trimmed. I donated my hair twice in the past three years, committing to the au natural look for better quality wig material, but decided to enjoy the length for a while before slicing off the required 10 inches. To all the ladies and gentlemen out there with long, flowing locks, I now understand how nerve wracking it is to have a pair of scissors snipping methodically at your hard earned mane. It took years to achieve that length, right? When I had short hair, the stylist could do no wrong. Chop it, shock it, twist it, and snip it. I'd be back in four weeks anyway and pomade could fix anything.
While I was sitting in the barber chair the stylist did her usual trash talking of bargain bin hair salons. To the horror of all the staff, and wannabe beauty queens within ear shot, I admitted that I almost pulled into Best Cuts before opting for a more experienced establishment. Now, to be fair to Best Cuts, these ladies all worked there for 5-13 years before moving on to bigger and better blow outs. But, I guess that memory was short lived and the cycle of graduates from cosmetology school is at full throttle because there hasn't been hyde nor hair of a want ad in the paper to fill the void of their departure.
After the pack of wolves was finished devouring their mid morning snack of other people's unfortunate hair stylist choices, we turned our attention to something positive, weddings. And who doesn't like to talk about that. They're like babies. Everybody knows one, has one (two, three, four, or more), or has already been there...done that. In that case, the conversation was flowing like polish on a pedi.
Of coarse, the notion of getting ones image professionally enhanced, by the self proclaimed divas of hair dye before the big event, was the main topic for the stylists. The patrons were more interested in finding out where, to who, and how long they'd been dating before hand.
In the midst of all the wedded bliss, I heard a woman slice through the snipping and the snickering, with a declaration comparable to a Disney princess that refuses to fall into the hands of her villain; "Wedding season is upon us, ladies"! Did I really just get an adrenalin rush? I mean, I literally started to panic. I frantically searched my wardrobe, via memory, for acceptable wedding attire be it at a beach, ballroom, backyard, or dive bar. I even considered having my nails done for the first time since 1999. I had to get out of there. The smell of bleach, burnt hair, and concealer was getting to my head, let alone being in one room with ten women that were probably menstruating or having hot flashes. When I start considering acrylics it's time to split.
On my way home, with a wonderfully layered cut I might add, I was finally able to breath and think like myself again. The thought of weddings was still there but without the sense of panic I was suffering from while in the beauty bubble. So, instead of freaking out about what color lipstick to wear if my dress is red, I was focusing more on what the bride and groom might get a kick out of as a gift. Stem ware? No. Photo album? Nah. Puppy? Nadda, but maybe. Dryer balls? Why the heck not? They're going to be doing laundry, right?
So it was decided. For this wedding season, that sneaked up on us so mischievously, I would gift Leaping Sheep Wool Dryer Balls to the bride and groom. Yay for me. All by myself with a declaration for nobody to hear. So, I decided something else. I would be getting my nails done for the weddings. Maybe just my toes. You see, like I said, the smell of bleach, burnt hair, and concealer had gotten to my head and I found myself missing it. That, and the resemblance between being in a salon with 10 catty women that were probably menstruating or having hot flashes and growing up in a family of multi-generational, catty women, that I know for a fact were menstruating, having hot flashes, or had one too many glasses of wine. It felt good to be home. And that, not the monster lashes, was the most beautiful thing about it.