The Language of Hair

I don't think I'm an idiot. I have hung out with (and been employed by) Skip Strobel, one of the world's leading plant pathologists. I have beaten some real smarty pants at Scrabble. I am a published writer, for goodness sakes! And yet, I cannot communicate with hair stylists. I don't know their language. They fluster and intimidate me and make me feel stupid. It happened again today. I went into Supercuts (yeah, I know...) to get a haircut before my trip to San Antonio. I had a picture with me. A nice middle-aged lady haircut. It kind of looked like Judge Judy (whose hair I admire) if Judge Judy had thin, straight, lifeless hair. It looked like a style that even I could manage with a hair dryer, round brush and lots of product.

The first thing the girl said was, "Really? This is very extreme. Are you sure?" Suddenly, after dithering about this for the past two weeks, I wasn't at all sure. The picture didn't look extreme to me. Christian from Project Runway has extreme hair, Amanda, the biker chick on American Idol has extreme hair, but Judge Judy? She continued..."Have you ever worn your hair short?" Since I had come in with short hair and wasn't there for the "make it longer" special, I had to say that yes, I was accustomed to short hair. Then I started blithering around about how I didn't want to look like a boy, but I wanted it tapered in back, and I wanted the top kind of long and I wanted it to have fullness and...and...and...

She pointed out to me that the picture didn't show the back so how did she know what the back was supposed to look like? Then she started firing other questions at me; "Did she need to blend my part?" (I don't know--you tell me!) "How long did I want my longest layers to be?" (Just make it look like the picture!) "Did I want a hard or soft edge over my ears?" (I don't know--what does Judge Judy have?) "Did I want texture?" (Doesn't everyone?) Finally, she tired of the pointless inquisition and started cutting. I fussed with it a little when I got out to the car. In the rear view mirror I looked a little like Hitler, sans moustache. Now that I'm home, I haven't done anything with it yet. It will be a fun surprise tomorrow to see if I can make it look anything like the picture or like anything at all.

What other professional insists that you pass an oral test before they give you what you came for? Does the dentist ask you how you want that amalgam mixed before he fills your tooth? Do the yard guys ring the doorbell and quiz you about how high to set the mower before they start? Maybe there are women who can speak the language of hair, but I'm not one of them. If the past two Memory Monday pictures don't prove that, then cast your gaze over this proof:

My interpretation of Carnaby Street style, circa 1968.

Bill seems a little leery of the frizzy mop!

Apparently, we had a "two for the price of one" coupon.

Oh well, the good thing about a bad haircut is it doesn't last forever.