Aselin

I’m not a picky girl. I have no delusions of grandeur about myself. I don’t wear much make-up, and what I do wear I bought at WalMart. I shop for clothes, maybe twice a year, sometimes less. When I do, I shop the bargain racks. And, as previously mentioned, I still have some clothes I wore in high school. “Fashion disaster” has been used to describe me more than once, and I don’t mind at all.

So you would think I would be somewhat insulated from personal aesthetic trauma. Oh how wrong you are.

Last month my selfish hairdresser of six years decided to marry the man of her dreams. I was totally supportive of her dating, but I can’t believe how incredibly egomaniacal she has been in getting married and moving to California. My mind is reeling that she could actually leave me. I mean, I see her three times a year! What will she do without my revenue?

Just goes to show, you can’t save people from their bad decisions.

So how hard can it be to cut my hair? I style it with a blow dryer. I sometimes even use mousse. I know. Ooooo.

About twenty years ago I worked for Vidal Sassoon as a hair model. The first show I did was really fun, the stylist was fantastic and the weeks after the show I still sported the attitude to match my sassy hair.

When I got called in for my second show I was really excited. It was about 9 months after the first. Many of the photos from the first show had been used in salons and print ads so I was all jittery with hair excitement.

I was beyond pleased when I arrived at the salon to meet the new stylist I was assigned to; he was edgy, sassy and WAY gay. In stylists this is usually a great thing. After the obligatory hair wash (even though I had washed it six times the morning before I came in) I was seated in the chair getting the fantastic platonic head massage that makes hair appointments worth showing up for.

In assessing my “face frame” as he called it, he announced his evil plan. I was to get a 2” long entire head bob, with a wave perm. Every pore in my body started to sweat. Time stopped and suddenly I realized I got one of the defective gay guys. Crap.

This time, I was smart enough to walk out with my wet hair.

You would have thought I would have learned.

Only a few short years later I was sitting in the chair of another edgy, sassy gay guy. The ambiance was right. He had promise. As he started razoring away, a technique I’d never experienced, we chatted about life. Half way through the interesting hair attack he revealed he was the stylist for a family of ten that I knew. I started seizing right in the chair. We called the family “The Bad Hair Family”. All ten of them had REALLY, REALLY, REALLY bad haircuts. As he styled my new do, I realized I could have been adopted by them. Tears welled up in my eyes as I handed over a wad of cash paying for the monstrosity atop my head.

When I walked in the door at home my hubby stifled a grin as he said “You look like one of the _____ (bad hair family)” I wished I had been a ninja, I would have kicked him in the head. Unfortunately, my assault skills are limited and I just whimpered onto the couch.

Fast forward to today. I just tried a new stylist. She came recommended. I look like David Cassidy. My former stylist has ruined my life.

Next time you see me I will either be wearing a hat or singing the Partridge Family version of “I Think I Love You” off key.