Anyway, I also tossed my cookies earlier this week on Monday and went home early to consume roughly five quarts of water, so I was sympathetic. We jaunted down the block to Whiskey’s where we proceeded to refill her tummy with chicken fingers and Magners. This seemed like a good combination to me but then again, I am not a physician.
After dinner, I walked five blocks to Jerel at 119, the only salon in Boston that I trust after the horrifying Joan Jett Hair Fiasco of 2006.
Five blocks down Newbury Street, just five tiny little blocks in the shade which is BARELY half a mile, and three flights of stairs later, I was covered in a fine mist of dew. Why am I always that person at a fancy event with parsley between her teeth? Or that girl who walks into Bottega Veneta after unknowingly leaning against a wet counter in a public restroom making it look like she peed herself? Is this why we can’t have nice things?
The receptionist was wearing an outfit that was probably more expensive than my college education. She looked downright horrified at my apparent state of… moisture. I splashed cold water on my face, I took deep breaths while dangling upside down over the air conditioner in the dressing room, I chugged the last of my lukewarm Dasani, but nothing was really helping. My body has apparently had enough of the heat and chose RIGHT THEN to let me know how it felt. Luckily, the shampooer had a sense of humor and listened to my request that she use freezing cold water.
I’d been toying with the idea of cutting off all my hair for the past few weeks. Beau is a big fan of short hair (I think because that's what I had when he first got the hots for me back in college). Plus, long hair feels an awful lot like wearing a wool blanket around your neck in 90° humid heat. So, I mustered up my courage and my oft absent cojones, and told my stylist to chop it all off. She gasped for a few minutes, mourning the loss of my curls, but then started asking the usual questions. We determined a little below shoulder length would work. As she tinkered behind me, I heard her mumble something about almost having enough to donate. Turns out, Locks of Love requests ten inches of hair for their wigs, but Pantene’s Beautiful Lengths program requires only eight. She showed me where my hair would fall and before I let myself chicken out, I told her to do it. So what if it was shorter than I originally wanted? Doing something genuinely unselfish once in awhile builds character.
After she’d finished cutting, she started blow drying my hair which caused my head to resume perspiration production. There came a point where she was almost done that I got increasingly fidgety thinking, “Any minute now she’s going to realize that that last inch of moisture is really sweat and she’s going to ask me not to come back ever again.” Somehow, that didn’t happen. And I guess the universe was happy with my donation because in the end, it was a faaaaabulously adorable haircut. Beau took a picture of it with his Crackberry this morning which is horrible and makes me feel bad about myself but I will share it with the Interweb for the sake of posterity.
The receptionist was wearing an outfit that was probably more expensive than my college education. She looked downright horrified at my apparent state of… moisture. I splashed cold water on my face, I took deep breaths while dangling upside down over the air conditioner in the dressing room, I chugged the last of my lukewarm Dasani, but nothing was really helping. My body has apparently had enough of the heat and chose RIGHT THEN to let me know how it felt. Luckily, the shampooer had a sense of humor and listened to my request that she use freezing cold water.
I’d been toying with the idea of cutting off all my hair for the past few weeks. Beau is a big fan of short hair (I think because that's what I had when he first got the hots for me back in college). Plus, long hair feels an awful lot like wearing a wool blanket around your neck in 90° humid heat. So, I mustered up my courage and my oft absent cojones, and told my stylist to chop it all off. She gasped for a few minutes, mourning the loss of my curls, but then started asking the usual questions. We determined a little below shoulder length would work. As she tinkered behind me, I heard her mumble something about almost having enough to donate. Turns out, Locks of Love requests ten inches of hair for their wigs, but Pantene’s Beautiful Lengths program requires only eight. She showed me where my hair would fall and before I let myself chicken out, I told her to do it. So what if it was shorter than I originally wanted? Doing something genuinely unselfish once in awhile builds character.
After she’d finished cutting, she started blow drying my hair which caused my head to resume perspiration production. There came a point where she was almost done that I got increasingly fidgety thinking, “Any minute now she’s going to realize that that last inch of moisture is really sweat and she’s going to ask me not to come back ever again.” Somehow, that didn’t happen. And I guess the universe was happy with my donation because in the end, it was a faaaaabulously adorable haircut. Beau took a picture of it with his Crackberry this morning which is horrible and makes me feel bad about myself but I will share it with the Interweb for the sake of posterity.
Please don't judge it by the quality of this photo. The picture does NO justice to the haircut because my face is so distracting (Hi, when did I become so lopsided? The one squinty eye, the off kilter grin? What’s that about?). I'll have a photo shoot later this weekend to get a more flattering shot that I'm less embarassed by. And for $49.99 plus the cost of shipping and handling, I'll send you the lifesize portrait. Just give me your home address. And your social security number.
3 comments:
SSN#666-66-6666 - now send me my photo.
Loooove the cut! Very cool. I'm growing mine back out after my Posh Bobification moment of delirium.
I find your haircut like I find my brother's coffee--dark and important.
looks good. i see youve toned down the popeye!
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