I like instant gratification. I don’t like to wait. When I decide something, I want it to happen right then.
For example, I’ve been known to decide to color my hair on a Tuesday morning and by Tuesday afternoon; it’s a different color than it was when I woke that morning.
There is no thinking about, considering the pros and cons. Nope, once the idea hits, I usually just want it done.
This isn’t necessarily a positive personality trait. I need to learn to slow down, give it some thought, take a little time before jumping in feet or, heaven forbid, head first.
My hair, as mentioned above, tends to suffer the most from this character flaw of mine.
I got my hair cut on the Monday before Christmas. I took a picture of a pretty girl with a shoulder-length layered bob to a salon, showed it to the stylist and asked if she could cut my hair like that.
This is the picture I took to the salon with me:
“Sure,” she said. “No problem.”
Except…there was a problem. I didn’t leave with hair like the girl in this picture, which is the picture I showed the stylist.
No. I left with hair like this:
I ask: In what world is the hair in the above picture a shoulder-length layered bob? Answer: In a world full of demented, cruel people that cut the hair of people with necks that resemble turtles, perhaps.
I have, quite honestly, a horrible haircut. It was probably the first time since I started paying for haircuts that I didn’t even try to fake loving my hair when she turned me to the mirror.
This time when she turned me I met my hideous reflection with barely concealed horror and finally forced myself to say, “Well, maybe it’ll look better when I have a chance to wash it.”
She offered to wash it for me.
I refused, paid her and fled.
I’m proud to say I haven’t cried over this haircut. I mean, it’s just hair, it will grow. Sure, I’ll have to deal with the ugly for several months probably, but it will grow.
My girls hate my hair. I hate my hair. My mom hates my hair.
My husband was kind (smart?) enough to say, “It’s really not that bad.”
He’s sweet. But he’s also a lying liar who lies.
It’s that bad. It’s really, really that bad.
The ladies with whom I work insisted it’s cute. Okay, one lady did suggest that I go have someone (NOT the original stylist) use razor scissors to blend the layers.
I told her no one was getting near my head with scissors, razor or no, for at least two months.
My dad, a retired barber, gave me a look of sympathy the first time he saw it and then offered to trim my bangs the second time he saw me post-haircut tragedy. To blend them with the rest of my layers, he said. I told him the same thing I told the coworker about no one touching my hair with any sort of cutting device any time soon.
See, it doesn’t need to be shorter! It needs to grow. “Blending” anything is just another word for cutting it. No. Thank you but not.
I did laugh the other day (a full two weeks after the disastrous haircut) when another coworker asked me what she’d need to ask for if she wanted a similar haircut.
I replied with a laugh, “I don’t know. I didn’t ask for this haircut.”
I showed her the above picture of Mena Suvari and said, “This is what I asked for.”
I then suggested that she go to the salon at Walmart, ask for Tina, show her the above picture and she’d walk out with my haircut.
See…that’s the problem. I decided on that Monday before Christmas to get my haircut. I found a picture of the hairstyle I thought I might like on my head and instead of calling around to actual salons that take appointments and employ competent, experienced stylists, my need for instant gratification kicked in and I went to FREAKING WALMART for a haircut.
And I walked out with a horrible haircut. I guess I sort of deserve this.
Maybe this will teach me a little patience, a little self-control.
If nothing else, the act of waiting for this haircut to grow out is an act of patience.
See, I’m learning already.