Adventures of a Haircut

I finally had enough money to get a haircut.
My hair is like a weed--it grows approximately an inch every month and a half (weeds may be a little faster). So, I saved up and scheduled an appointment at a snazzy-looking, students-get-a-discount, pretty music, Christmas lights type of place. They have giant nutcrackers outside the front door...

..

I walk in and it's pretty much like a Christmas-wonderland, which should be illegal since we still have to get through Thanksgiving, but I let it off the hook this time. It looks glorious.
I'm handed a clipboard (because I'm new) by a receptionist who has a perfect haircut. She asks if I'd like water or coffee or something.

"Anything hot and sweet," I say, shivering. It's chilly out today and hot coffee with an overload on sugar while I get pampered sounds too good to pass up.

The hairstylist assigned to me takes me back with a smile. She has a long strand of red in her waist-length dark locks. I kind of like it. I explain as best I can (without knowing hair-cut lingo) that I want my hair shorter, layered, not poofy, with fringe. She listens.
Perhaps this seems "well, duh" to you. Of course she listens! But I can't tell you how many times I've walked into a salon and the sleek, pointy-haired stylist gives me a sleek, pointy-haircut before I can scream "HALT, intruder!".
My stylist (yes, I refer to her as "my" stylist, now) actually listened and asked questions to clarify. I'll mail her a round of applause.

She's speedy--snip here, snip there, I make a suggestion, she follows through. My coffee tastes delicious until I start sipping pieces of my own hair.

Suddenly she's blow drying. "Um, did you already do the layers?" I ask, squinting into the mirror (as if that'll help me see them better).
"Yup, blended them in," she says, blowing loose hairs into the air like organic confetti.

Suddenly, my faith plummets into skepticism. I didn't see her do layers. I don't even see the layers. She pulls one "layered" strand up. "See?"
It's too long--longer than I would have liked. But maybe I'll keep trusting her.

Next, she performs the stylist's secret move and spins the chair so I can't see myself. This is when a stylist sprays tar into your hair and uses special combs that look like torture devices to turn you into their version of "sexy".
The hairspray smells like sticky alcohol, which inevitably means it's professional and expensive. She starts some sort of ratting where she foofs the hair the wrong way to add volume. I usually avoid anything with a name that refers to disease-infested rodents, but I grit my teeth and bear it.

More hair-tar and some knot-combing later, I'm swiveled to meet my reflection. The practiced response of, "It's perfect! I love it!" leaps from my lips. I tend to program this reaction into my reflexes no matter what my reflection resembles. It makes the stylist happy.

Well, it was a new me. A poofy me.

Have you ever looked in the mirror and suddenly reminded yourself of someone else? It's a weird experience. Today, I reminded myself of a girl at school. I don't know her, but yesterday she wore hot pink leggings, a black and white checkered coat, heels, and has short, bleached, poofy hair.
It sounds bizarre and almost grotesque, but this girl can pull it off like nobody's business. She would look weird in jeans and a T.
Well, my hair reminds me of her. Almost messy, too poofy, my-bathroom-is-filled-with-special-products, hairstyle.

I leave the salon, carrying its cloying scent in my bee-hive. When I get home, I pull out the brush, mirror, and (don't scream) scissors. A minute and a half later, the beast on my head is tamed and, I must say, I like it.

Despite the poofiness, I'm keeping my stylist. But I may have to confiscate the hair-tar.