Bang and Blame

April 4th, 2005

There are two words that make anyone who’s had her hair cut in the last 20 years quiver with fear – “mullet” and “bangs.” Today, I am the proud owner of both.

A few weeks ago, my hairdresser Erin moved on to greener pastures from the Aveda salon I’d been frequenting for the last four years. Seedier pastures, actually, for she’s taken up a post in Revere, an ‘up and coming’ area of Boston. The area of Revere where she moved…not so up and coming. So, after much debate that involved weighing the pros and cons of being held up at gunpoint while visiting my hair salon vs. trying out a new stylist, I decided to stay with my current salon, taking them up on the promise that the owner would be taking care of me. Nice!

Not so much.

I arrived on Saturday with high hopes – a new stylist was just the ticket my long, tired, semi-flat hair needed. I’d spent the last nine months growing it long, and it was finally at a point where I could add some layers and perk it up. Visions of extra-long layers and Teri Hatcher body flashed before my excited eyes. Yippee!

“Call me Trish” greeted me with a half-smile, while a dozen skinny teenage vo-tech beauty school students gathered around me like the Brides of Dracula. The color went well enough – I get my hair done a solid dark shade, no highlights. For chrissake, I could do that with Nice N’ Easy, but I’m afraid I’ll screw it up (hello, Cosmic Nerf Bat, nice to meet you).

As the color was sinking in, Trish came over with a brilliant idea. Mind you, she’d seen my hair for all of five minutes and had asked me no questions.

“I want to do A BOB. A modern bob. I want to take your hair up in the back to your hairline, then long and piece-y in the front. I haven’t done it on anyone yet and I’m DYING to try it out.”

Try it out. These words alone should have sent me running, but I had faith. She owned the salon. All would be well.

I demurred, noting that I’d had some form of bob or another for the last 15 years. I am Bobbed Out. At nearly 30, this is the first time I’ve had long hair since I was sixteen and I wasn’t giving it up that easily.

Tricia didn’t take it well, and shouted,

“You bitch! I was DYING to try out the bob. Fine. Be that way. No bob. Okay – well, as long as you’ll let me do fun things, I will be your stylist. I’ve got a lot of other great ideas in mind that will let you keep your length.”

Good. I could have done without the ‘bitch’ part, but she struck me as one of those women who wished to be hipper than she was, and used crass, brash remarks to disarm her audience and try to bond with them as the cool, sisterly older woman. It wasn’t working on me. A teeny yet powerful force of a thing, she was in her mid-forties, cursed like a truckdriver, and in the time that I was there pre-scissor hell, could be heard saying such things as,

“I’m so fucking GOOD at this. Doesn’t she look beautiful? I AM SO GREAT! I mean, I’ve been cutting hair for 24 years, I should be a fuckin’ master. And I am.”

I was getting more trepidatious, but hey – the people coming out of those chairs looked good, even if it wasn’t my style. I put my eggs in her 24 years of experience, as it wasn’t that much longer that I’d been alive.

After the shampoo, I reluctantly plopped myself in her chair, ready for her to be “so fucking good” on my hair, too. She never addressed me directly, but rather, was using my head to teach her audience of young sycophantic teenagers who hovered around me like bees,

“Ladies, today, I am going to give Joan-A the JULIA MAE. Have you seen the Julia Mae? It’s the hippest new haircut coming out of Aveda. I just learned it last week, and here we go!”

I interjected – “Um, what is the Julia Mae?”

“Long layers, lots of body – TRUST ME, it’ll be gorgeous.”

I’m aware right now that I am an idiot who should have gotten up out of the chair right then and there. But I trusted her. I know I know I know. OKAY? I KNOW.

Several snips and a few moments later, she was making a line near the front part of my hair – a line that looked mysteriously like bangs. I need to point out here that I wear glasses – strong ones – that need to be removed during haircuts so I am relying on literal blind faith.

“Uh, are you giving me bangs? I’m not sure I want bangs.” No response.

“Now ladies, you’ll see that I’m making the fringe – its fringe, Joan-iker, not bangs, not to worry – a little less than the Julia Mae calls for. For that, Joan-iker will be grateful.”

I must now admit that though this statement confused me at the time – I actually am grateful, otherwise things would be much worse. Granted, I’d be a helluva a lot MORE grateful if I didn’t have them to begin with, but let’s not get hung up in the past. Instead of fringe looking a lot like bangs, the fringe would have been a strip of hair that started in the middle of my scalp and GOD KNOWS WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED THEN.

Another snip and I suddenly couldn’t see. I sensed bangs. BANGS.

She continued to snip, and finally, the unveiling happened.

My God.

My God.

My God. I had the heaviest line of bangs I’ve ever seen. Scooby Doo’s comrade Velma had wispy bangs compared to these babies. And that wasn’t the worst part. She’d layered my hair to the point that there was a fair amount of serious business going on in the front – and a raging party going on in the back.

While the front of my hair was ready to go to work and get some shit done, the back was cracking open Milwaukee’s Best and firing up the F150 for some NASCAR.

My God.

I composed myself enough to pay (YES I KNOW) and get out of there, and immediately called my sister for emergency assistance. She wasn’t home, so I went home to my husband and when I walked in was greeted with,

“Um, is that a wig, honey? What happened?”

I started sobbing. Fortunately for Abe’s constitution, my sister called and I insisted on descending on her home that very minute for assistance. Her reaction was startlingly similar,

“Oh my God, it looks like a wig.”

My eight year old nephew, Marco, was standing by, snickering. Ann asked him what he thought of Auntie’s hair,

“Seriously, it looks really bad. Really really bad. Auntie, can you get it fixed? Just have them put the hair back!”

Julia Mae, whoever you are, I SO FUCKING HATE YOU.

Entry Filed under: Nuttin'