Why no, my name isn’t Mitch.
No, I can’t change your oil.
Ah, no, I don’t know what station the NASCAR race is on.
Nope, not sure if we have a Super Wal-Mart.
Ok, so I am so going to hell for that. Look, I got a bad haircut. Bad. I don’t mean an, “Oops, she styled it weird. I’ll fix it in the morning,” kind of thing. I mean this is an, “Oh my god, is my head really shaped like a butternut squash?” kind of quasi mullet-bob atrocity. I am long since over the sobbing about too much length being cut or walking out with bouffant styling. Usually you can undo what they have done with a long shower, a brush and a blow dryer, or worst case scenario a pony tail holder and a cap. But what she’s done defies conventional masking techniques. Down, up, wet or dry, my head looks not entirely dissimilar from the Edward Munch face..you know the one I am talking about, the haunted jug headed figure. I have serious doubts that this is going to grow out into anything beyond a longer version of what it is. Honestly, I don’t know what kind of scissor wizardry she used to so effectively butcher the shape of my hair.
A few months back my sister visited and she and my mom laughed at me as Abbie cut my hair while I sat ramrod straight, tense and ashen as if waiting to be executed. She wasn’t doing a bad job, but it was 10 o’clock and Abbie is a painting major, not a hair stylist. I was 4 months postpartum (not the time of a woman’s strongest self-image as the body continues to sort of stall and say, “Hmm, are you sure you want things to stop being slack and doughy? Cause we can just sort of stay soft for a while…”) Anyway, we survived it. I think Abbie was a bit miffed that I ran out of juice and I was annoyed she wasn’t more understanding. Now as a mom of two girls I know my mom was torn between trying to defend me and protect Abbie…can you say “no win”? If I had it to do over I would invite Abbie back and let Shawna be on her merry way to bumpkin-o-fying other people to her heart’s content.
So I am sentenced to spending the next 4 to 6 weeks as a 30 something mom in upstate New York sporting what looks like a bad Dolly Parton QVC “bob-lett” wig. The kicker, I was supposed to get my hair colored but we ran out of time, so they made me pay in advance and I go back tomorrow. Am I insane? You know she’s going to ask me how I like it. Ummm, not sure what I’ll do. Guess it’ll depend on if she has already applied the color. Wouldn’t want to open myself up to further damage. Then again, if she totally screws my color maybe people will think, “Poor thing, someone really messed up,” rather than, “Strange, she seems kinda pretty, but sorta looks like the dude in Mask with that hair.” We all have these stories though, don’t we?