Yes. This is seriously what it looks like when I don't straighten it. Be jealous.*
*PS ... If you're following me on Instagram (@fightingfrumpy) you can see pictures like this one. And of my cat in a sack. And me kissing a cow. And a blood-splattered T-shirt. You know, awesome stuff.
That's not the actual picture I sent in - my eyes were much less googly and my hair was much more
At the salon, a lady with a clipboard pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and sifted through my hair a bit. I felt scrutinized, like some sort of livestock at a county fair judging station. She explained that the hair models were being used to teach their stylists a new "French hair cutting" technique and that a fancy-schmancy European guy (I'm paraphrasing a little) who was a world-renowned celebrity stylist would be overseeing each cut.
"Are you open to any style, any length?" Clipboard Lady asked.
"Sure," I said. "I mean ... I teach Zumba so I'd prefer to be able to pull at least some of it back, but it doesn't matter too much."
She looked me over again. "Well, this particular hair technique matches the style to the client's body type. For example, we don't go much below shoulder-length on larger people." When she said larger people, I felt like her eyes zeroed in on my hip-and-thigh area. It was like she was saying, "Well, basically you don't have to worry about a short haircut since you are a fat-ass heifer."
Anyway, they accepted me. Yeah, I'd be a guinea pig, but it was a free haircut! I'm a sucker for anything free. I once got a sample of caulk in the mail and acted like it was my birthday.
So yesterday was the big day. Does anybody else feel like a dork when they enter a decent salon or is it just me? I always feel like the school nerd trying to sit at the popular kids' table in the cafeteria. I prayed they wouldn't notice my mediocre-at-best home dye job, which was the result of a OMGSOMANYGRAYHAIRS freak-out the night before a wedding last weekend. They shampooed me and then I sat in the chair with the black cape around me. I swear those things make me look like I have no neck.
The fancy-schmancy European guy came over to talk about my hair with the stylist, and y'all? I saw the waistband of his underwear as he was waving his hands around explaining something and it looked more expensive than my entire outfit. He was impeccably dressed, his hair was perfect, and he had an accent that made me want to ask him questions just so he'd keep talking. They got out a ruler, discussed the angles of my face and the unfortunate double-cowlick that keeps me from ever having bangs, and then started snipping.
My stylist was nervous with this dude overseeing her work. She told me that he charges $300 per haircut at which point I might have fainted a little. It takes me, like, six years to spend $300 on my hair. But she did a great job, and he pitched in with a few snips, and before I knew it I was done and out of there. FOR FREE.
I drove home feeling as sexy as my minivan would allow, and made sure that the vents blew my bouncy new 'do back like a shampoo commercial.
And then I took like a hundred selfies, because of course.
Being scrutinized by a fancy European salon guy (that's his technical title, I'm sure) was a little nerve-wracking. But a free haircut? HELL YES.