Today’s big adventure was a cut and color (or depletion thereof) at the hairdresser. The good news, to everyone but my husband who is footing the bill, is that I look essentially the same as I did when I went in. It makes me realize that I’m at the age where I’m not going to wake up one morning and look like Vanessa Hudgens. I’m just trying not to look like my grandma Mimi. Status quo, the new standard of excellence.
But the whole haircut experience hasn’t always been so smooth for me. When I was a freshman in college, for example, I whined until my dad put an extra $30 in my account so that I could get my hair cut and colored(it was a long time ago). So I did what any savvy 18-year-old would do, I spent $19 on Old Milwaukee, $6 on QuietTouch paint-on bleach, and went to the hairdressing school that used to be located on West End Avenue in Nashville, where they cut my hair for about $5.
Thank goodness for the beer. My haircut was so bad that I dodged sorority row and risked life and limb weaving through dark alleys to get back to my dorm without being seen. There I donned the only sweatshirt I owned with a hood, and I didn’t take it off for about a month. It was the same haircut my mother used to give me. It looked bad when I was 3 and it looked worse at 18. It was a sleek look, OK, it was lifeless hair closely framing a face that resembled a dead fish washed up on the beach — white and bloated.
The freshman ten had somehow lodged in my face, as though there was a stopper in my throat keeping all that I ingested close to the point of entry.
It wasn’t a pretty year. Never again, I vowed. As I told my hairdresser today, some things are recession-proof, and as long as there are blondes with roots, her mortgage is solid.