Look, I love every single thing about moving to New York EXCEPT whatever it is in the water or atmosphere that continues to dry out my hair to the point where barely there acquaintances were telling me that I needed to get my ends cut. Being the rash, impulsive person that I regretfully am, I decided one morning during work that I was absolutely not going to wait even three more hours before cutting off my hair. Research a good hair salon? Why bother, ya know? So I ask a male co-worker where he gets his hair cut, since I knew he would be all about convenience, and he directed me to the hair salon located directly below our office. I obviously booked an appointment for the lunchtime hour and left without further notice.
I should say that I work in one of the nicest parts of Manhattan and while jumping into a salon below your job is usually a horrible and risky idea, this salon is actually nice and really very clean. The problem was that when I ran downstairs overly excited about my soon to be freshy trimmed locks, I was greeted by what might be a female with an addiction to methamphetamines (and I would know because I’ve watched a LOT of breaking bad recently) with the worst possible hair I have ever seen. Any normal female/reasonable thinking human would have quickly faked a last minute meeting they forgot about or even just said “no way” and left, but said acquaintances voices were playing through my head and all I could think about was leaving with perfectly healthy ends, so I sat down and said “trim me up, girl.” I actually used to have this policy that I would not go to a hair stylist who did not have her hair done (bad advertisement, I felt), and yet I casually decided to allow a female with day old mascara under her eyes and one extremely frizzy, dirty and messy bun to play around in with scissors in my hair.
While everything inside of me felt anxious and worried every second of my visit, my Siberian stylist actually looked as though she knew what she was doing. With every snip here and there she was fulfilling my desires to yet again have the long, flowing hair I knew that I knew was laying just behind those dead, dry ends. 32 minutes, one blow out and a few insults about my horribly dry hair later I was left with the choppiest, uneven haircut of my life. The problem is that a really good blowout can confuse you; you really just never see for yourself how bad it is until you get home, wash your hair yourself and are forced to try to make ends meet (pun intended) when no layer matches the other layer on the opposite side of the head. My face is framed with layers that are only comparable to that of an 80’s bowl cut and I have other completely random layers thrown in all over the place. When curled, I can kind of hide all of this, but even last week a co-worker told me that I looked like Farrah Fawcett with all those curls framing my face. It’s rough.
What’s the point to this story, really? Yelp your salons before booking a visit and refuse to use a stylist if they woke up and refused to wash their face or brush their hair. You know, basic beauty regimes that everyone else probably already follows.