After a few days of debate, and asking followers for some input, I meandered myself into a salon for a hair cut.
I was nervous, and had my husband along for company. I sat in the chair, and enjoyed the luxury of having my hair shampooed. I really do enjoy that. There is something very therapeutic about a good massage of the scalp, and the aroma of a salon shampoo that just awakens the senses. Now Time for the cut. Sitting in another chair we are chatting about my choice of style. I had forgotten my picture at home, but found something in the book there that was so close, this woman knew who I meant right away. The stylist turned my chair, and began the cutting process. Chatting away, My husband is getting bored, but he is really very patient. I am positioned so I am not looking in the mirror, but more at my husband. I am glad, as he is a huge part of the reason I have worn my hair long the last 22 years. I am judging his facial expression, and all is good. he is neither showing alarm or joy, just looking bored. I was stone cold when she turned my chair so that I could see in the mirror. My Hair, what? where? no.
I was not even able to stammer anything. I had gone in with an expectation, and had shown the woman a picture, She had indicated the understanding of my request. I was staring at a cut that did not belong. I swear, it was god-awful, choppy, blunt and NOT what I wanted. I bit my tongue. Had I been able to say anything, it would have been less than humane.
She spent 48 minutes using a flat iron and blow dryer on my hair. It was flopped in front of my face for most of this time. She then spun me back to the mirror, grabbed by the handful from the top of my forehead, and dropped it on top, fluffed it a bit with her fingers and asked what I thought. Hands instantly moving it, trying to look less angry, and actually look at the cut and style. It did not work well. I had her give a few more snips, so there was some feathering and framing of my face, which actually just made it look choppier.
I thanked her, got my coat and hat, paid the bill. My husband followed me out the door, not sure what sort of obscenities might be flying out of my mouth by the time we got to the car. I just thought all the way home, I do not think I spoke.
When I picked up my grand daughter from school, she looked at me, she says, "I liked it better long, but it will grow back, Right Grammy?"
Oh, the hugs I gave that little girl, and the smiles, and reassurances that Yes, it will grow back.
Today, I spent some time on it. I put a fresh color on it, and played with the curling iron, the gels mouse, hot rollers, hairspray and several different clips to get it to do something that was not an embarrassment. I am not sure how I fared, as I am my biggest critic. I will say that there is truth to the statement of a 5 year old. It will grow back. If you want to see it, you will have to wait just a bit. I will be participating in a new venture with several other Wonderful Crochet Artists, which is expected to launch within the week. I will let you know more, as soon as I have a actual date.
Until next time,
Becky
I was nervous, and had my husband along for company. I sat in the chair, and enjoyed the luxury of having my hair shampooed. I really do enjoy that. There is something very therapeutic about a good massage of the scalp, and the aroma of a salon shampoo that just awakens the senses. Now Time for the cut. Sitting in another chair we are chatting about my choice of style. I had forgotten my picture at home, but found something in the book there that was so close, this woman knew who I meant right away. The stylist turned my chair, and began the cutting process. Chatting away, My husband is getting bored, but he is really very patient. I am positioned so I am not looking in the mirror, but more at my husband. I am glad, as he is a huge part of the reason I have worn my hair long the last 22 years. I am judging his facial expression, and all is good. he is neither showing alarm or joy, just looking bored. I was stone cold when she turned my chair so that I could see in the mirror. My Hair, what? where? no.
I was not even able to stammer anything. I had gone in with an expectation, and had shown the woman a picture, She had indicated the understanding of my request. I was staring at a cut that did not belong. I swear, it was god-awful, choppy, blunt and NOT what I wanted. I bit my tongue. Had I been able to say anything, it would have been less than humane.
She spent 48 minutes using a flat iron and blow dryer on my hair. It was flopped in front of my face for most of this time. She then spun me back to the mirror, grabbed by the handful from the top of my forehead, and dropped it on top, fluffed it a bit with her fingers and asked what I thought. Hands instantly moving it, trying to look less angry, and actually look at the cut and style. It did not work well. I had her give a few more snips, so there was some feathering and framing of my face, which actually just made it look choppier.
I thanked her, got my coat and hat, paid the bill. My husband followed me out the door, not sure what sort of obscenities might be flying out of my mouth by the time we got to the car. I just thought all the way home, I do not think I spoke.
When I picked up my grand daughter from school, she looked at me, she says, "I liked it better long, but it will grow back, Right Grammy?"
Oh, the hugs I gave that little girl, and the smiles, and reassurances that Yes, it will grow back.
Today, I spent some time on it. I put a fresh color on it, and played with the curling iron, the gels mouse, hot rollers, hairspray and several different clips to get it to do something that was not an embarrassment. I am not sure how I fared, as I am my biggest critic. I will say that there is truth to the statement of a 5 year old. It will grow back. If you want to see it, you will have to wait just a bit. I will be participating in a new venture with several other Wonderful Crochet Artists, which is expected to launch within the week. I will let you know more, as soon as I have a actual date.
Until next time,
Becky
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