I cut my hair last night. Well, I didn't cut it; Melle did. And John too, sometimes. But we'll get to that.
I've been dying to chop all my hair off for the better part of a year now. I hadn't actually done it because 1) I have no money 2) I moved and didn't have a hairstylist here and 3) I'm lazy as hell. But a couple of weeks ago I looked in the mirror and saw a frizzy mass of blondish/reddish frizzy junk and decided I could stand it no longer. I still didn't have a place to get it cut though. Lucky for me, the Beer Gods have noticed my devotion (I frequently pour out libations to them, you see) (as in down my throat) and decided to take pity on my poor head and show me a sign. I know it was the Beer Gods because the sign showed up on my way to the bar, in the shape of a purple horseshoe surrounded by the words Urban Lift. A hair salon 20 steps from Tai's? Clearly someone was trying to tell me something.
So at work I decided to look it up on the internet to see if they had a website. They did, in fact, and on that website was my second sign that this was the place to go: they have a blog. (This sign came from the Internet Gods, not the Beer Gods. Obviously Fish was praying for me.) I thought to myself, "Hey! I also have a blog! Clearly these people are really cool. (and therefore my hair will be cool)." I called up and made an appointment.
The third sign was when I walked in yesterday and saw Melle. She had on a jean skirt with purple lace nylons and some mauve-ish colored boots, the cutest glasses in the entire universe and way wicked cool hair. I was obviously in the right place.
I had had some trouble trying to explain to my parents about how short I wanted my hair. "How short? Like shoulder length?"
"No, that's long. I'm cutting it short."
"Like a bob?"
"No! I mean short, like as in actually short! Lesbian short."
My stepmother looked concerned and my father cracked up. Neither one had to ask me what "lesbian short" looked like though.
I did not have to resort to tired stereotypes when I said "short" to Melle. She and the other stylist, John, stood beside me, picking at my head, looking at magazines, asking me questions, pretend cutting, and debating about what would be the ultimate coolest way they could coif my head. Eventually they came to a consensus and Melle whisked me off to wash my hair (always the best part, and since I was getting color too I got to do it twice!).
Melle and John, by the way, are both entirely hilarious. Melle was nervous about cutting so much hair off. For one thing, they had decided on a cut she hadn't had much chance to practice yet. For another thing she had had a bad experience. Apparently when she was in beauty school some girl with waist length hair came in and said "Make me look like Halle Berry." So Melle put her hair in a ponytail and then chopped the whole thing off. Halle burst into hysterical sobs. Melle panicked and also burst into hysterical sobs. It scarred her for life. Consequently, when she had sorted out my hair into sections and grabbed the first piece, she stood holding it with the razor against it while asking me no less than 5 times if I was ready. So cute.
My hair, by the way, is not exactly "lesbian short". The back and sides are spiked out, maybe an inch and a half long, and the front tapers down from the end of my spikes to my chin. I promise pictures are forthcoming, but for now, please enjoy this very rough approximation of what I'm talking about on the head of Blink-182's Tom DeLonge.
After she sliced about 11 inches of hair off and I didn't scream or try to stab her, Melle relaxed, and we both enjoyed a very long but seriously entertaining story about when John's mom decided she ought to go to the gay bar with him and git on down on the dance floor (John apparently stopped her from getting on the stage). In between story time and Melle's happy slicing, John would come over and peek at my head, take Melle's razor, and do some cutting of his own. We also took in some Snoop Dogg (John: How can you go wrong with Snoop?) and some punk rock (Melle: No one will like this song but me. Me: This song is awesome!).
We colored it after we cut it (and by "we" I mean Melle and John, I just sat there trying not to laugh too hard and screw up Melle) because we cut off about 3/4 of my hair, so why bother coloring all of that? Melle mixed up for me a super dark brunette color with caramel and yellow-blond highlights, one of which looked like mashed up tangerine in the bowl (I wish I didn't work in a professional office so that I could actually have tangerine colored hair from time to time). John came and peeked at it while Melle was washing my hair and did a happy leprechaun dance from the sheer joy it induced.
Finally, I grabbed my camera and asked Melle to take some pictures, thinking I would stand there and smile while she snapped a few off. I don't know why I thought that, given the whirlwind of entertainment I had just born witness to. Melle decided to take action shots: a "come hither" look, and a Charlie's Angels, coming around the corner shot, complete with finger "gun". At some point I also insisted that she come drink with me at Tai's, because, um, she's way rad.
I am seriously in love with this place. I might even just ditch Tai's and start hanging out at the salon on Thursday nights, which is completely dorky, but you see, so am I. Oh, and my hair? I am one sexy bitch right now. Thanks, Melle!