I love my hairdresser. She is in the “moderately hideously expensive” range, I always end up at about $70 with tip. But she cuts my hair the way I want, every time, and I only have to go every two months. The first time I went to her we had a little interview where I told her I don’t do hairdryers, I don’t do product, and all I want is hair that a: frames my face nicely and b: can be tied back so I can go running.
So it’s one length in the back, she refused to cut in layers (yay!) and a couple of lengths around the face. Wash, go, it looks fantastic.
Now I’m just dreading the day she tells me she’s up and moving to Antarctica or something because the last decent hairdresser I had, 17 years ago, broke my heart when she quit the industry. And after that I’ve been wandering in the wilderness. Finding someone who believes me when I tell her I don’t style my frickin’ hair is just awesome.
I always have to make an appointment with my regular stylist… I don’t like to stray too far from someone who gets it right. That said, a few weeks ago, she was booked solid, and my hair was tickling my crack.
I got frustrated.
I cut it myself.
I flipped my head upside down, and cut straight across. I stood up, looked in the mirror, screamed, and started cutting some more. And more. And more.
I’ve been told it looks fine. stargazer told me it was “very Seattle”. It’s now finally starting to grow into a respectable enough cut… except for the past couple of days, I’ve noticed something a little distrubing: the longer it grows, the more I get this… this… Conan O’Brien thing going on in the front. I keep beating it down, gelling, blowing, ironing… it keeps bouncing back up. What’s worse? My hair is red. :smack:
Oh, Conan. I feel your pain. I bear the hump hair.
Every eight to twelve weeks I get my dad to give me a buzz cut. I did it myself with scissors last year, and it worked fairly well. I love having hair this short, and I’m never going back. I’m planning to get my entire head shaved (scalp and face) this summer; hopefully, I can do it after my last choir performance, but before school ends. I just looked at the calendar: 6/13: Baccalaureate, 6/17:Graduation, 6/20: Last day. Woot!
A couple weeks ago, I went into my local Hair Cuttery, sat down, and told the stylist to do whatever she wanted. Totally spur of the moment. I was tired of my long, overgrown haircut that hadn’t seen scissors in over a year. Whatever the stylist wanted was just fine with me. I was ready for a change.
I’ve never seen such a happy stylist. She shampooed me up, then hacked off about four inches, cut me some bangs, and moved my part. I LOVE IT. It feels a little weird to have hair that only falls to about my shoulder blades, but’s it’s so much lighter and has actual shape now. When I got home, Agent Foxtrot took one look at me and asked, “Why do you have a bandaid on your hand?” I had nicked my hand with my nail clippers. I gave him a grumpy look and pointed at my head. He then said quickly, “Oh, I love your new haircut!” Men, pssht.
I don’t know if this would go with your overall look, Dangerosa, but I recently got a cut that was too short and looked, well , kind of dorky. So I dyed it dark red (the temporary kind of dye that lasts 12 shampoos or whatever). Being a slightly odd color , it seems to say “I’m wearing this funky 'do on purpose 'cause I’m a wild and crazy kind of girl”. Sometimes you can fool people into thinking something’s cool
