In reality, I got my hair cut once during my sophomore year of college and then just let it grow for... like basically ever. I dyed it several times. At some point, I anxiously plucked a pretty noticeable bald spot into my eyebrow and then called my mother in a panic; she set up an appointment for me to get bangs cut that would cover my eyebrows.
So, when 2017 came around, it had been somewhere between five and six years since I last got my hair cut. So, I decided that it was time for a change.
My parents are friends with a girl who works at a salon, so they gave me her number, and awhile ago I contacted her. I assumed she would have a kind of full schedule, or at least one that would be difficult to work me into because I'm forever at a library half an hour away from the salon. But, I contacted her on Thursday night, and we set up an appointment for Saturday.
Earlier in the week, I told the mom squad at work ("the mom squad" is how I refer to three of the women I work with who all have children around my age and are full of sage wisdom and own a lot of cardigans and will teach you how to crochet or quilt or whatever if you ask them) that I was thinking about getting my hair cut.
"Like how?" one of them asked, excitedly.
I shrugged. "I think I'll just say, you know, 'Do whatever.'"
She looked at me with wide eyes. "You should look up pictures on Pinterest first. Get some ideas of what you might want."
"Yeah," I agreed. But then I just never got around to it. My fantasy self totally would have. My fantasy self isn't just brave, she's a thorough researcher. She makes rational and informed decisions. My actual self thinks, "Oh yeah, I'll look into that," but then never does. Or only kind of does. Or just texts her brother, "I only read about the first half of the stuff on the ballot, how should I vote on these propositions?"
So Saturday rolled around and I arrived at the salon and I hadn't even kind of considered cuts or styles.
I'm always early everywhere. It's compulsive, I think. I don't think anyone ever told me, "Early is on time. On time is late. Late is unacceptable." But, nevertheless, it's the mantra that repeats as my baseline. So I showed up to my 11:15 appointment at 11:03. I stood awkwardly in the doorway looking around. My dad had showed me a picture of their friend, but I wasn't convinced I would recognize her.
The salon had wooden floors and walls. Walls decorated with large floor length mirrors jutted out at random angles creating little nooks and crannies filled with pleather, spinning seats and little wood cabinets covered in plastic combs. There were people everywhere--women in seats wrapped in plastic tarps, women dressed in black standing behind them and snipping away at their hair. I didn't think I saw my parents' friend anywhere, so I just loitered, looking around.
There was a girl near the front of the store who was painting her client's hair in dye and folding it into foil. Her hair was dark, naturally, but was honey gold near the ends. They call that ombre. I was trying to do some indiscreet studying of her ombre hair because I didn't want to go total creeper on her but a lot of people have refused to put color in my hair because it's so dark and thick and bleaching it would kill it or something. Unfortunately, she noticed me.
"Can I, like, help you?" She asked.
"Um, no," I mumbled. "I just got here... early... for an appointment."
Thankfully my parents' friend came in shortly after and called out, "Hi, Kat! Watch your step up but you can grab a seat there," she pointed to an empty seat in front of a floor length mirror. "I'll be right back."
"Okay!" I said excitedly, fleeing from the girl I got caught spying on.
My parents' friend is tall and thin in the kind of way that makes me wonder if all women are really part of the same species. She has dark hair that falls straight around her shoulders and wide rimmed glasses. She seems effortlessly cool.
She comes up and starts untangling the hair tie from my ponytail. "Woah, you're hair is really long. Is it naturally curly?" She asks.
"Yeah," I say, confirming both, maybe.
"Who do you get that from?" She asks. I shrug. I honestly don't know. Both of my parents and my brother have relatively straight hair. I did, too, when I was younger. But sometime in upper elementary/middle school that changed.
"So what are we doing today?" She asked me, dropping my hair around my shoulders.
"Um, well, I'd like it to still be long. But different. But I don't know what. I'm okay with whatever I guess," said the real/not-fantasy version of myself.
"Okay!" She said, chipper and smiling. She took me over to the sink and washed my hair. While she did, she launched into a story about a car cutting her off on her way to work. She's exactly the sort of person that I most admire, the kind who can talk effortlessly about almost anything. Comparatively, I'm always trying to think of what to say and how to say it. I'll come up with stories to tell and search for ways to bridge the conversation towards them. I start to say things and promptly stop. I'm a social disaster.
She walked me back over to her station and gave me a few instructions. When she was cutting my hair, I couldn't wear my glasses. I had to sit up straight. I couldn't cross my legs. When I first sat down, I was breaking all of those rules. But I promptly rectified all of that.
"Do you want to take this much off?" She held up a piece of my hair, her fingers pinched where she was considering cutting it.
"Um, I honestly can't see anything right now. But, yeah, sure, I'm good with whatever."
I don't know. Maybe blindness makes me more like my fantasy self.
"Do you want layers?"
"Sure."
"Do you want to frame your face?"
"I don't know! Do I want to frame my face?"
"Yeah, you do."
I was excited. And super freaking nervous. Throughout the next half-hour or so, my hairstylist wandered around me, snipping away at my hair, and telling me about her former roommate's cat and asking about my plans for the day. Then, eventually, she was done. She stepped back, inspected it, swirled my chair around and held out a mirror.
"Do you like it?" She asked.
"Yeah!" I said.
"It's shorter, but still pretty long. I like it," she said. "If you decide later that you want more layers around the front, just let me know!"
I paid her and thanked her and walked out to my car to send snapchats of my new haircut to some of my friends.
This was my hair before:
This is my hair now:
