Okay, so when I said "blog post will come later today," I guess I actually meant "blog post will come at 2 in the morning the next day when everyone who might want to read it is asleep or doing something more worthwhile." Sorry about that.
My haircut actually ended up being a wonderful experience. I got side-swept bangs and long 1960's hippie layers from a hairdresser that I love. It looks great and now I feel kind of stupid for writing a melodramatic post about haircuts as capital punishment. But really, there is a reason for my haircut melodrama. Have a seat, dear Daddy Likey readers; it's time for a little story.
I always hated getting my hair cut. I dreaded the awkward banter, the hot hairdryer, the aftermath of finding tiny poky little hairs in my cleavage for days afterward (is that just me? yeah? damn.). For many years I went to the same hairdresser, a 40-year-old surfer dude with badly bleached tips who called all his clients "Babe" and who, perhaps because he lived in fear of being falsely outed in a profession overflowing with accurately outed guys, was the most oafish, crude, stereotypically straight man I've ever met. He would always insist on giving me 1980's news anchor bangs when I didn't want them and was generally horrible, but still I stayed true (the crippling fear of finding a new hairdresser can make people do some pretty strange things), until I went in for a haircut one day when I was about 16.
As soon as I walked into the salon, he looked me up and down and said, "Wow! Your legs look really hot in that skirt." This was creepy, yes, but sadly, it was within the normal range of creepiness that I endured every two months just to get a damn trim. As the haircut progressed and he worked on the news anchor bangs in front of my face, he kept staring at my lips and pretty soon he was saying things like, "God, your lips are amazing. You should totally star in a lip commercial." I had no idea what a lip commercial was and I was getting kind of uncomfortable, but my hair was half cut so I just said, "Umm...thanks." He gave me the lip commercial line one more time and I decided I was never coming back.
When it was all finally over, I got up, brushed myself off, and went over to my purse to get the check my mom had given me. When I walked back over to him, he swooped in for what I thought was his usual hug which I was desperate to avoid today. I tried to parry but he grabbed me in a passionate embrace and planted a kiss on my "lip commercial" lips. And not just any kiss. It was the frenchest of french kisses. Full. On. Tongue.
I screeched "gah! bleh!" and pulled away, literally threw the check at him (why oh why did I pay him for that??) and ran out of there. I got in my car parked a few blocks away and did that thing people do in bad movies that you think nobody does in real life, when they find out they kissed a man dressed up as a woman or something and they look in the mirror and go "bleeechhh!" and scrape their tongue off with their fingers for like five minutes straight.
Yes, as my friend Rachel so graciously pointed out the other day, my first kiss was a forced frenchy with my forty-year-old hairdresser. And that, my friends, is why I have haircut issues.
If you have a painful haircut experience (and really, don't we all?), let the comments section be a place of therapeutic sharing. It doesn't have to involve a sexual predatory hairdresser, it can be a crappy haircut (I once went to a place seriously called "Hack and Whack" and left with a rat tail, so I hear ya) or a horribly bad dye job. Whatever it is, we all feel your pain and we all want to hear about it.
P.S. Anna from Miscellaneous Musings, you left a comment hinting at your bad haircut history so I definitely want a story from you, missy.