My love affair with hair
|This is a good look for me.|
For me, I think my love of going to a beauty salon can be attributed to the expectation of transforming into an improved version of myself. Sure, it's a little vain to put that much emphasis on getting your hair done, but I'm a huge fan of fresh starts and for a lot of women, the quickest (and sometimes the most fun) way to embark on a new journey is to simply change your hair.
Why? Because hair grows back. Hair can be hidden under a hat or behind a headband. It's much easier to grow out a bad haircut than it is to switch careers or move to a new city. Changing your hair doesn't even need to be drastic. Maybe some rock n' roll fringe across your forehead is all you need to put a bounce in your step, gain some confidence and feel like a goddess.
However, making a trip to the beauty salon is oftentimes a double-edged sword for me. While I daydream about how fantastic I'll look after some new layers and a fantastic blowout, sometimes I can be crushed beneath the weight of my own fantasy. I don't have good hair, plain and simple, and nothing draws more attention to that fact than sitting beneath a halo of florescent lighting and watching my stylist try to tame the flyaways sprouting along my cowlick. No matter how many magical potions and mousses are sprayed or massaged into my scalp, I'll never have beautiful, flowing tresses like a Kardashian. Heck, I'll never even have a decent ponytail.
Some women lustfully wish for bigger breasts or a bigger butt. But me? If I could change one thing about my physical appearance, I'd ask as for bigger hair. I'd ask for the kind of hair that grazes my chest in soft, natural waves and hair that has the thickness of a stallion's mane (that's not too much to ask for, right?). When I envision the perfect head of hair and the epitome of gorgeous style and color, this is what I think of:
|If I could scalp this woman and glue her hair to my head, I so would.|
I have maybe a FOURTH of how much hair that woman has.
Every time I go to the hair salon I think, this time it's going to be different. Excitement resounds because surely this time I have found the perfect style that will give me a good hair day every day. Surely I've finally found the style that suits my fine, pin-straight hair. I'm going to look amazing. This is going to change my whole outlook on myself.
And it never does.
It makes an improvement, sure, but the reality never fully matches the daydream. Nichole Richie's bob didn't translate quite so perfectly onto my fine hair, but the angles are flattering against my oval face shape. I don't look red carpet ready, but I can dry and style this cut quickly in the mornings.
Nevertheless, I leave the salon with healthier hair than when I arrived. The split ends have been hacked off, my roots have been touched up, and I got to spend some quiet time reading gossip magazines while my color set. I talked "hair" with my stylist and learned a few new tips for managing my specific hair type. I was even offered free Diet Coke. I leave the salon with a renewed hope that I'll be able to maintain this style on my own, that I will be able to make my face-framing layers do that "swoop" thing my stylist showed me with a flat iron.
Then, as the weeks go by and my "new" style begins to grow out and the ends inevitably start to split once again, I will give up and sport a ponytail more days than I don't. I will begin to fantasize (and consequently romanticize) my next hair appointment. What will I try next? How can I improve my hair more? Then I begin to feel excited, look forward to the experience, and the whole cycle repeats.
Surely this time ...
When I initially tried to explain my rocky love affair with getting my hair done, Clayton responded, "I pay $11 for a hair cut at Great Clips or I have my mom do it for free."