Ziggy Stardust Has Left the Building

I have been going to the same hair stylist for over 8 years now. Last Saturday, I went to my hair appointment along with my mom and my mom’s friend. We love to book our appointments together, so we can make a day out of it. We usually spend the majority of the day getting our hairs did, and then we always go out for a late lunch or early dinner. It’s a lot of fun, and it’s become a great ritual for the 3 of us.

My hair was in that awkward growing out phase from my summer “posh spice” bob. I needed something cute and sexy. I brought in a picture of a girl with above the shoulder length hair and lots of layers. As soon as we arrived, I could feel something was awry in the salon. There were several girls sitting in chairs, each of them waiting around with wet hair or foils in their hair. Our hair stylist was swamped, and he was not ready to take on all of us. My mom wanted to cover up the grey, add some blonde highlights, and a trim; I wanted a haircut, and my mom’s friend wanted a haircut as well. He was finally able to tackle my hair around 5, which had been a couple hours after our set appointment.

I got in the chair, and I remember he looked at the picture of my haircut at a funny angle. The magazine was sitting on a window sill, and he looked at it briefly as he stood above it. I should’ve been worried then. In a cautionary tone, he asked me if I blow dried my hair on a regular basis, and I lied and said yes. There are some days I do, but on the whole I do not. I’m a late riser, and I don’t usually have the time. I’m okay with that. I’ve learned to accept that my laziness has taken priority over my hair in the morning. He started cutting my hair, really chopping it. I didn’t think anything of it because I’ve been going to him for 8 years, and I’ve never had a bad hair style. Then, he was flat ironing it, and cutting it some more. Now, I asked him to keep the length in the back, which was right above the shoulders. I wanted to start growing it out. Finally, my hair was straight as a stick, and he was putting on the last minute touches. When he was finished, I stared at myself in the mirror, slightly stunned. My hair style resembled nothing of the picture, and if I had to compare myself to a celebrity, I would have to say David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust phase. I had a mullet. There were no two ways about it. I was all rock n’ roll in the back and business in the front.

I’m pretty sure outside the backwoods of Arkansas, mullets are not in. Nobody is going into a hair salon with an old picture of Billy Ray Cyrus and asking to look like that. It’s not a good look. I couldn’t decide if I looked more like David Bowie, Joan Jett from the I Love Rock N’ Roll video or a man-hating lesbian. I think it was a combination of the three. It was bad. I was horrified. I didn’t want my boyfriend to see it. My first thought was there goes my sex life, and my second thought was maybe I should invest in a wife beater, some jean shorts, and a pair of work boots.

I ended up going to a reputable salon on Newbury Street in Boston and getting it fixed. The woman who re-shaped it was amazing, and she really deserves kudos for what she did. However, she couldn’t perform miracles, and there are some pieces that are just too short to do anything with. If I don’t blow dry and style it just right, then it resembles a cancer survivor’s hair as they slowly grow it back. I hate seeing people at work because they ask if I got my hair cut, and I want to say no. I don’t want anybody to notice, and I definitely don’t want people thinking I went into the salon and asked for the boy’s regular. This weekend before I go on my vacation to Vegas, I’m investing in some hats and lots of make-up. I’ve never had a haircut where I had to “femme” myself up before. Hard times. Things could be worse, I could still have my mullet.