hair me roaaar.

Its that dreaded time of year again. No, I’m not talking about back to school time, the slow setting in of fall’s first chill, or the beginning of the string of exclusive jewish holidays in which they and only they receive a free pass from all responsibility and obligations. I’m not even talking about hispanic heritage month. I’m talking about the time for my yearly haircut. I can barely walk in a straight line or hold a conversation longer than thirty seconds my ends are so split. You think I’m exaggerating, but try asking me a question, I engage for a fleeting moment before an end split six different ways catches my eye and my sentence drifts off and my eyes cross while I try to single out the strand from a mop of its blonde counterparts and….. it’s completely absorbing, not to mention highly flammable. Yet I can’t bring myself to make an appointment. I’ve always had an adversion to having my hair cut by anyone but myself or surburban moms in their kitchens with gardening shears. I love my hair- It keeps my massive head looking relatively proportional to my body. We’ve come a long way since the misguided bob I received freshman year of highschool which made me look like the blonde guy from Glee. I also sang in the choir, so I had that going for me as well. There’s something about the sound of shears snipping wet hair, the sight of hair falling to the ground, the girl who one day aspires to be a hairdresser sweeping it all up with a zebra print broom, that I have trouble stomaching. But there’s nothing worse than the moment your hairdresser comes to get you from the waiting room like you’re meeting your maker (this is especially inconvenient when your in the middle of a sweat-inducing Cosmo article.) And your maker has blue hair and is wearing an impossible amount of layers over colored leggings. Why am I forking over on the upside of two hundred dollars and entrusting my sacred golden locks to someone who looks like they got on the Kool Aid Man’s bad side? On top of this, I’m absolutely sure all hairdressers are on a maniacal vendetta to give everyone the Jennifer Anniston haircut from the 90’s. They always want to add in some serious layers “for body,” and “just a trim” is not part of their vocabularly. “I just want a trim.” “Well I’m going to have to take off atleast two inches, but to be honest hunny, it’s split all way up to your earlobes.” No matter what you tell them, they’re ultimately going to do whatever the hell they please. Creative license. So they scheme about what they’re planning to do with you as they comb your hair with one of those little black combs that look like they’re meant to be used only on mustaches and say “tell me if I’m hurting you at all,” while you blink back tears. The rest is a flurry of snips and hair fluttering to the floor and the rustle of the plastic cape you’re wearing as she pumps your chair up and down and spins it around. The sound of a blowdryer. She ruffles her fingers through the roots of your hair a few times while appraising her work. Then she spins you around to look into the mirror, the big reveal. Of course the mirror’s super unflattering and over-lit, and you realize you’ve been buying the wrong shade of foundation and your eyeliner definitely isnt 24 hours as promised, and the gap between your teeth is widening so you should probably make an appointment to have your retainer re-fit….and let’s face it, your haircut seriooously blows. You immediately start estimating when it will be back to normal length by. Any special occasions coming up? Will you look less like Sandy from Grease before she turns into hot, leather pants wearing, pierced ears Sandy by then? You manage to convince yourself that it’s true that your hair grows back faster when you’ve just had it cut, a rumor obviously popularized by hairdressers to promote their industry and further their dictatorship.

All this being said, I’m getting a haircut next week. I’ve actually just had an epiphany and feel much better. The uncanny similarity of my haircut to Jen’s is what must have turned off John Mayer, not the way I was wolfing down his gravy drenched french fries.