It all started in kindergarten. My best friend, Sarah Macky, innocently asked me one day, “Can I cut your hair?” Me, being a people-pleaser at age 5, said, “Sure.” And thus began my life-long curse of bad haircuts. See, Sarah Macky had not quite mastered the art of using scissors yet and basically, she lopped off just one of my long white-blonde pigtails. As she stood there with a chunk of my hair in her hand, miraculously detached from my head, all I could think of was “boy am I gonna get it at home.”
Which I did.
I went from what I was starting to accept as a very sporty, one pigtail look to a boyish frenzied pixie cut at the hand of my irate mother (also not very talented with the scissors).
And if you don’t believe me, just look at my first school picture. I cringe when I remember standing in line to have our pictures taken, the massive box of flimsy black combs, the lights flashing as the kids were hurriedly moved in and out of the room. And there I stood, in a dingy white turtleneck, green plaid vest and matching hunter green polyester pants. I couldn’t have looked any more like a boy than if I had a pack of cigarettes rolled up in my sleeve. With my pasty white complexion set off by the green plaid vest and smartly accentuated by my pixie-on-acid hairdo, my kindergarten mug shot was just a memento of the many bad hair days to come.
The saga continued through my school days. My parents went to London one summer, and while they were gone, I got a spur-of-the-moment haircut at the local mall. Bad idea. When they got home, my mom took one look at me and said she hadn’t seen a worse haircut, even in London – and this was the 80s! I wore a headband to hide the choppy evidence every day for eight months after that one.
College was a lifesaver though because of my perpetual lack of money. I came out of school with a degree and a long mane of dry, frizzy dishwater blonde hair. The academic hippie look suited me just fine. But of course, I ruined everything when I got the prerequisite “looking for a job” haircut which set me back another five years.
And so now, hair stylists of the world, I am your worst client. I let my hair grow for months and months and when I finally do break down and get a haircut, my first reaction to just about EVERY haircut I’ve ever had is this: I’m letting it grow out. I’m never getting my hair cut again. This is it. This is really the last time. Ever.
Of course, it’s not. In fact, I’ve got an appointment next week with the best stylist in town. And the saga continues….
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