写真とヘヤカット! Photographs and Haircuts!
I have been needing two things for awhile now: new passport photos and a new haircut.
I got both on Saturday.
I decided that since I’m going to have my passport for the next decade of my life, and since it will be passing through the hands of many customs workers, I should be happy with the picture. Now of course, that would all depend upon whether or not I was happy with the haircut.
I’ve been going to The Hair Cuttery for a few years now. I’ve never had any problems there. It’s cheap, walk-in, and close by. The girls there are friendly and stylish and no matter who I’ve been with, I’ve always been very happy with the end result. So, I confidently walked in, made an appointment and waited for about ten minutes. My name was called and I sat down in the chair. Then, she came.
My stylist was in her late forties, had poofy, teased hair, and looked rather tired. I felt my stomach twinge a bit in anxeity but I figured I had a really nice picture of the hair cute I wanted with me. Even though her style might not exactly match mine, if I can at least show her the picture and tell her what I want, no big deal. A stylist can follow a picture guide and simple directions, right?
Then, she spoke.
“Vell, vat asdffgh eirueuigh doday? Eh?”
I blinked. And I panicked. Apparently, this particular stylist hailed from somewhere in Eastern Europe and barely spoke English. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love foreign languages. But I was really hoping to clearly express what I wanted done with my hair, in English, to someone who would clearly understand what I was saying. I was definitely having a minor meltdown of terror. I quickly surveyed the scene and saw that not only was every stylist currently engaged in their own work, but there was a waiting group in the chairs staring at me, wishing I was already done so that it was their turn. I was too embarrassed to do anything. I couldn’t mortify the poor woman and request another stylist because her English skills weren’t up to par. I had to trust her and believe in the best. If it turned out poorly, in a way I wasn’t expecting, then I would have to have to forgive this woman for screwing up my hair. I would have to practice patience in waiting for it to grow out, and I would have to learn humility as I sacrificed my somewhat pretty appearance.
Oh such object lessons over a $40.00 haircut! Little wonders are found every day.
I’ll be honest, my stomach was in a knot for the duration of my hair cut. I couldn’t even relax during the shampoo! When we got to the cutting part. I showed her the picture of the beautiful model with the gorgeous hair cut. I pointed to my hair, slowly enunicated every syllable of every adjective describing precisely what I wanted done. Her slow, unblinking gaze seemed glazed over in mental translation. Then she suddenly snapped out of it.
“Vat I vill do ish askjdh erusdufh adfdhggfgru. Okay? Yes!”
I was wide eyed. A quick nod was all I could muster.
Twenty five minutes later I emerged from the chair, couldn’t bring myself to look in the mirror, paid and darted to my car half in tears. All I saw was my profile, and outrageously teased and curled hair. I was so upset, felt I had wasted my hard saved money, and couldn’t find that patience and forgiveness I thought I’d be utilizing.
When I finally got home and examined my hair in the mirror, I was frozen. I looked like a Texas high school girl from the mid 1980s. It was the first time I’d ever experienced a bad haircut in my life. My worlds were falling apart. How was I supposed to go to work? How was I supposed to go anywhere?
One I regained feeling in my limbs, I grabbed a brush and started brushing out the multiple layers of curls the lady had piled upon my head and frozen in place. I worked meticulously to undo the damage. I was quite determined that this haircut would not be the end of me.
Finally I began to see the light at the end of of this horrible ordeal. My hair, though not at all what I had originally hope for, was falling in soft little waves around my face. I was subdued. On the upside, there was so much product in my hair that not even in intense Florida heat and humidity could even touch my hair and attempt to make it frizz. I knew this would never happen again so I ran to Walgreens and ordered two passport photos. I certainly don’t look glamorous; I suppose few people ever do on their passport or driver’s license. But I look like myself. I look my age. I look sane. I guess I can’t ask for too much more. I have a new passport all ready to take me to Japan. I will finally be getting a new stamp in my passport after six years of being trapped on domestic soil. I’m appeased.
Here’s how the passport picture turned out.
I was placated. I knew that I would be able to manage my hair somehow. Most of the time I’m devastated after a new haircut because I know I can never repeat the beautiful stylng genius of the hairdresser on my own. Just three or fours after a long awaited haircut, my hair looks nothing like the finished product on the first day. I knew I was in the clear. Never again would my hair be able to replacate the monstrous poofy masterpiece that travelled from Eastern Europe just to scare me to death.