Some things, I like to say, are better left to the professionals. Like teaching. And doctoring.
And now, hair cutting.
I have a difficult time with getting my hair cut. I’m pretty sure my mom trimmed my hair as a small kid, and the same lady cut my hair from the third grade until my wedding day. I even drove home from college to have her cut m hair, because she was the only one who understood my cowlicks, my hair’s weird ways of refusing to hold both a curl and a straightening, my baby-fine texture, my scalp’s sensitivity. She saw me through the great DIY highlighting disaster that left me with ORANGE HAIR. We went through a lot together.
And then I moved 1000 miles away, where all our friends were also transplants, where I worked with a bunch of dudes. How was I supposed to find a good stylist? How would any stylist be as good as Joan? So I went to MasterCuts and kept to simple styles. And other women always seem shocked, but seriously, MasterCuts can give you long layers or a classic bob as well as anywhere, don’t hate. But after a while with MasterCuts, I began to feel that trimming my hair would be easy enough for me to do myself. Or better yet, since I can’t reach or see the back of my head very well, for Jon to do! He can even cut a straight line better than I can! So today we decided to try it…
Within a few minutes I had a hacked-up left side of my head and was trying to throw a hissy fit without making Jon feel bad for something I asked him to do, even though he said several times that he wasn’t so sure about it. Where’s Joan when I need her? Oh, right, Arkansas.
So, ashamed of myself for my hair-hubris, I headed into MasterCuts. I made sure to emphasize just what an IDIOT I am before pulling out the ponytail and revealing the damage. I looked like I’d had a dustup with a toddler and some safety scissors, if I’m being honest.
Ooooh GURRRRRLLLLL, my stylist said, you really chopped it! I told her I understood she might have to take off a lot of hair, and swore upon a shampoo bottle that I would NEVER, under any circumstances, try this again. She, proving my point about how easy they make this whole hair-cutting thing look, whipped my mess into a kicky bob in ten minutes flat. I tipped her generously and left, breathing a sigh of relief that I’m not going to have to wear a paper bag on my head to work this week. I’ve learned my lesson about doing things I should really be paying others to do.