Hairy Adventures -- A Success Story

Curly, unruly hair. That’s what I have. And I’ve been growing it out for 11 years. Why 11 years? Why the heck not?

Before.

Ok, in truth, when I fist started dating the hubby-then-boyfriend, he told me that he liked long curly hair and I admitted that I did too but due to a series of misadventures my hair was never longer than shoulder length.

First Misadventure — I Still Love You Grandma

One sticky summer evening my grandmother was cutting the men’s hair — Grandfather’s, Dad’s, my cousin’s and my brother’s. Perhaps my hair was getting a little unruly again and she offered me $20 to cut my hair. I was a little apprehensive but the notion of making an easy twenty won out. I sat in the yellow step-ladder and watched as clumps of hair started to fall away and on to the kitchen floor. A little at first. Then gradually more and more.

Unbeknownst to me, Grandma didn’t have much experience cutting little girl’s hair and was having a time of it trying to get the two sides of my head even. The right side was too short so she’d overcompensate on the left. Up and up she went until my hairstyle looked just like my brother’s, but lopsided.

Bring on the teasing as only elementary boys could do!

Keep Your Free Haircut Gift Certificates

Fast forward a couple of years of not liking any hairstylist as they insist on cutting my hair wet and then too short and not understand my sour face as I sport the mushroom-bob. Until, one day, my mother showed me she had a free gift certificate to a hair salon and I should consider using it.

The hair must have been unruly again and so I took it.

Upon entering the salon that was tucked away next to a Chinese restaurant and dry cleaners, I noticed there were a lot of itty-bitty’s and blue-haired up-dos. Where are all the college pukes, like me? I wondered. First red flag.

But I did not bolt for the door. Instead I showed my free gift certificate and said I just wanted a trim. After sitting in the chair, I don’t remember much except for the steel spikey brush of death that this 70+ woman with a beehive doo used to blow out my hair with after, again, cutting my hair too short. With each passing of the brush, she dug the steel spikes in my scalp and told me how much she loathed her husband, how eager she was for him to die and so on and so forth.

That day I did not find my voice. That day I looked something like this:

I did what was only natural and paid the crazy lady, drove to my mom’s office to show her what she had done to me. Naturally.

A Success Story. Finally.

Today I went to a Tony and Guy salon as I knew the hair was getting a little unruly and sweetums-like. (Reference first image.) Being completely spontaneous I went in to the salon, as a walk-in! and grilled my hairstylist. After answering all the questions correctly and sharing above horror stories I sat in the chair and nearly fell asleep.

I lost four very crunchy inches.

Success! (Holy crap- no make up! Just look at the hair.)

And she styled it. They call this beachy-curls.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Far out.

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