Why is hair so important to us gals?
We agonize over it. We color it. We envy other's. We hide it. We blow it out. We curl it up. We buy product for it. We spend hours looking at it. And, if someone pays us a compliment over it, we tend to respond with a lackadaisical "ohhh, thanks" while we shrug our shoulders. But inside, we are SCREAMING "Yes, someone noticed how GREAT my hair looks....my day is officially made!"
Here's the thing. I've never had much luck with my mane. It's this crazy texture. A mix between curly and not. Frizzy and wavy. Fine but thick. Not to mention, I posses one of the meanest cowlicks known to man. People actually think I have straight hair. I do not. I spend mucho face time in front of the mirror with my friends, the blow dryer and the flat iron.
For a year now, I've been sporting variations of a pixie cut. I do love this short hair thing. That is the truth. I've cut my blow drying and flat ironing time by more than half.
But, still. I have this mop on top of my head that needs grooming and with short dos the amount of times you visit the stylist's chair goes up. I've been super frustrated with the amount of money these frequent visits cost. Sure, I get a nice cup of something warm. The stylists semi gets my style right. We make chit chat and she/he pretends to be interested in my job as a full time mother. And, in the end, I've never been completely, 100% satisfied with the outcome. Forced to shell out between fifty and eighty smackaroos. Only to hold my breath and cross my fingers the next time.
Yet it never fails, with every new stylist at the next, new, hip spa-like joint my hopes are raised. Thinking, maybe, this time I will immediately fall in love with my perfectly coiffed hair. Only the next time, is exactly like the last time. I'm never completely satisfied no matter how much the stylist fakely smiles and tells me how cute everything is. I know, they know, that I know, that they totally effed up and how they only are allotted an hour per costumer and my time done runned out.
I'm not over exaggerating people. Really I'm not. This is the truth. I have hard hair. I admit it. And, I'm not just whining.
Unwilling to go through the pain of making an appointment and draining my bank account just for my stupid hair, I happened to find myself in front of a Great Clips this afternoon. Yes, Great Clips. It was right next to Radio Shack. Two places I have long stopped going into since the eighties.
I always sorta assumed Great Clips are those establishments only men, children and older folks get their hair did at. But, there I was peering through the window watching the three Asian women shuffle one gentlemen after another. I took a chance. I walked in. I confidently gave my name.
Five minutes later I was in a chair trying to explain my style as simply as I could to my 'English as a Second Language' stylist. She made quick work of my head. We didn't make small talk. I wasn't offered a beverage. And, she barely dried my hair. Which was totally OK by me, because I came home right after and styled it myself. The best part, however, I was charged only sixteen dollars (plus five for shampooing) for just maybe one of the best haircuts I've had in a year.