A week ago, right before I had to leave for a concert, I got a really bad haircut.
Scratch that: I gave myself a bad haircut.
It all started with a hangover and a plan to trim my bangs. After cutting them at a variety of slanted angles, shorter and shorter and shorter, I smooshed them off to the side in a mess and took a good, long look in the mirror. A layer I’d cut into my hair about a year ago was still there, hanging out by itself on the right side of my head.
“I’ll just make it match on the other side,” I whispered to the little green army man next to my toothbrush. “Then we can get on with our lives.”
I grabbed a chunk of hair on the left side and cut. Turns out I’d grabbed nearly the entire left side of my hair and had given myself what amounted to a strange three-tiered mullet. I looked like Jeff Bridges from “Dumb and Dumber.”
“HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?!” I yelled at the little green dude, but he continued chatting into the army phone melted onto his back, ignoring me.
Ten minutes later, I’d cut seven inches off my hair in an attempt to even it all out, and looked more like Garth from “Wayne’s World.” But I wouldn’t figure that out until several hours later, so I pulled my hair into a ponytail, popped my killer whale costume over my head, and left.
For the past week, it’s been increasingly obvious I need to get into a salon and have someone fix it. But I don’t want to.
I despise sitting in the chair with the apron draped over me, chatting with the stylist about boys and jobs. And why pay good money to get a haircut I don’t like, when I could give myself a haircut I hate and spend the money on beer instead?
I think this all stems from the time my mother sent me away from the dinner table to get the hair out of my face. But I was six and didn’t know how to work a ponytail holder, so I cut the offending strands off at the root, returned to the table and basked in the praise I received for solving a problem.
Weeks later, when it’d grown a little and was sticking straight out of my head like a piece of straw, things changed — mostly the color of my brother’s backside, since I’d said he’d accidentally cut it during craft time. (Don’t flutter your hands like a shocked Southern belle; I’m a big sister, that’s how shit’s done.)
But I’m pretty sad about this latest haircut, because I’d only recently discovered the magic of a flat iron and had been having a grand time flipping my long straight golden hair around.
“Dude,” I’d whispered to the army man after the first successful straightening, “I look like a fucking princess!”
And now I looked like Garth.
Thankfully, while tearing the house apart looking for an Aerosmith shirt to complete my Garth costume this weekend, I found my old curlers. I figure I can skip the haircut a little longer if I hide the mess in curls.