This past Wednesday, I went to an aesthetics school for a girls’ “spa day” in celebration of my friend’s birthday. Since one of the gals was getting a haircut, I thought to myself why not? I know how to do my own nails but I can’t cut my own hair… plus, I’m way overdue for a trim. The last time I had it cut was way back in February!
Big mistake.
Well, for me it was anyway. My friend got a hairdresser who was just about to graduate from the program and so her cut turned out spectacular. Mine, not so much.
I was the lucky recipient of a THREE HOUR LONG haircut from a very sweet and gentle middle-aged man who was aspiring to be a barber. He had never cut women’s hair. Ever. It was only his second month into his training.
From the get-go, I knew I was in trouble. The chair for my wash was too low so I was slowly feeling my head go numb from the pressure of my neck being pulled upwards while my body dangled, trying to reach the seat. The water temperature went between hot and cold. And then, as the instructor came over to get him started on the haircutting itself, he actually said “I’ve never done this before.” The torture was only beginning.
Snip. Snip. Snip. Half an hour. One hour. One and a half hours. Two hours.
At the two and a half hour mark, a second instructor came over and checked his work. “Is this the length you want?” the instructor asks.
In my head, I’m thinking “No, I’d actually like it to be a couple inches shorter.” But then I thought, if I actually said that, I’d be stuck here F O R E V E R. So I politely said it was fine.
By the end, my poor barber was quite exhausted. He had concentrated very hard and, for a first woman’s cut, he had done fairly well. At least it was even. The instructor had mercy on him and got another girl to do the blowdrying. Only the girl he got had never worked on customer before. She was one month into her program and had solely be practicing on the mannequins in the back room.
Sigh. I figured, if I’m a guinea pig for one student, I might as well be for another.
Finally, 3 hours later, I walked out of the salon. I didn’t care how I looked. I was just glad to be out of there. The next day, after I’d washed and dried my hair, I realized the gravity of my decision.
I
had
a
mullet.
Looking back, I can laugh about the experience. It still mortifies me when I see my hair au naturel, without clips of some sort, holding some of it up. But I’m hoping that in time, as my hair grows, it’ll look better. I consider it my three hours (plus $10!) of community service for the week.
When I told my parents about what happened, my dad said I was courageous. I’m not so sure.
Sometimes, the line between courage and stupidity is very very thin.