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Yesterday I went to the barber-- no, not the barber, the salon.
This is noteworthy for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that the last time I had my hair trimmed was a year ago and then it was done by Lizbeth. The time before that was when my dad made me get four inches taken off in the 8th grade. So yeah, this was not exactly a trivial outing for me. It had taken months (years, really) of hemming and hawing, of "Oh darn, did we spend too much time at the bookstore to make it the barber's? I'm sorry, honey" and general dread to get to this point.
But my hair had lately been in a state that even I was being turned off by. The ends were all different lengths and while the rest of my hair tends to be very thick, they were all stringy and icky looking... more so than usual, even.
Anyway, we first went to a nails and hair place, the vibe of which I was just really not into. Fortunately they were full, but next door was "Nicholas Michael Salon", run by a man forced into that line of work by his unfortunate last name, I imagined. It was a very pretty place, full of very friendly people who were also pretty in that salon sort of way. One nice lady washed my hair (I had no idea such things could feel so nice!) and another nice lady gave me a trim and evened out my sideburns, a seemingly simple goal that has eluded me for years. It was a fabulous way to spend the afternoon! Really, I sometimes think that the only thing keeping me from being queer is this incongruent distaste for penises that I have.
Near the end of my trim, we were just about to finish up when the lady doing my hair asked if I wanted a braid. "Sure, why not?" I responded. Now, to really understand what happened next, one has to understand the affect that my hair has on women. I wish I could say it made them mad with desire or something, but alas that's only true for one woman I know and I've already gone and married her. No, the affect of my hair on women is much more subtle. It makes them want to braid it. Ironically enough, almost all of the women who are likely to read this are ones who've managed to resists my hair's charm, but believe me, especially in the case of girls who are going through that "must... braid... anything... pretty!" phase, I was accosted on a regular basis (now consider that I once spent a summer working at an elementary school daycare center... yikes). So when she asked, "Is it ok if I go a little crazy with this?" I was flattered, but not terribly surprised. When she was done, everyone at the salon seemed very impressed, but then, they wouldn't be helping their bottom line much if they'd all said "Karen, what the hell did you DO to him??". Lizbeth, too, was impressed but I've already mentioned her... feelings with regard to my hair. Well...
( cue "photo-essay" section )
This is noteworthy for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that the last time I had my hair trimmed was a year ago and then it was done by Lizbeth. The time before that was when my dad made me get four inches taken off in the 8th grade. So yeah, this was not exactly a trivial outing for me. It had taken months (years, really) of hemming and hawing, of "Oh darn, did we spend too much time at the bookstore to make it the barber's? I'm sorry, honey" and general dread to get to this point.
But my hair had lately been in a state that even I was being turned off by. The ends were all different lengths and while the rest of my hair tends to be very thick, they were all stringy and icky looking... more so than usual, even.
Anyway, we first went to a nails and hair place, the vibe of which I was just really not into. Fortunately they were full, but next door was "Nicholas Michael Salon", run by a man forced into that line of work by his unfortunate last name, I imagined. It was a very pretty place, full of very friendly people who were also pretty in that salon sort of way. One nice lady washed my hair (I had no idea such things could feel so nice!) and another nice lady gave me a trim and evened out my sideburns, a seemingly simple goal that has eluded me for years. It was a fabulous way to spend the afternoon! Really, I sometimes think that the only thing keeping me from being queer is this incongruent distaste for penises that I have.
Near the end of my trim, we were just about to finish up when the lady doing my hair asked if I wanted a braid. "Sure, why not?" I responded. Now, to really understand what happened next, one has to understand the affect that my hair has on women. I wish I could say it made them mad with desire or something, but alas that's only true for one woman I know and I've already gone and married her. No, the affect of my hair on women is much more subtle. It makes them want to braid it. Ironically enough, almost all of the women who are likely to read this are ones who've managed to resists my hair's charm, but believe me, especially in the case of girls who are going through that "must... braid... anything... pretty!" phase, I was accosted on a regular basis (now consider that I once spent a summer working at an elementary school daycare center... yikes). So when she asked, "Is it ok if I go a little crazy with this?" I was flattered, but not terribly surprised. When she was done, everyone at the salon seemed very impressed, but then, they wouldn't be helping their bottom line much if they'd all said "Karen, what the hell did you DO to him??". Lizbeth, too, was impressed but I've already mentioned her... feelings with regard to my hair. Well...
( cue "photo-essay" section )
