What Happened to My Hair

A few weeks ago, it struck me that my hair had grown very long without my consent. I don't mind long hair. In fact, I typically prefer it. But mine was by no means the sleek, soft long hair that we can all appreciate. Lord no. What was happening in my particular case was that every hair on my head was rising up in mutiny against me for forgetting to cut it for a year.

I only recognized the problem when, for several days in a row during my morning routine, I spent 20 minutes thrashing about in an unsuccessful attempt to release the wild animal that had entangled itself in my mane. And that's when I realized it was time for a haircut. So I booked an appointment at a local salon school.

Now, if you know anything about my unfortunate history with salon and spa treatments, you already know what an asinine move this was, and probably have a pretty good guess as to the outcome. For those of you who aren't familiar with my uncanny knack for selecting the world's most unprofessional salon personnel, I'll have to chronicle those experiences in a future post. Just know it's bad, and that I really ought to have learned my lesson by now, the lesson being that I shouldn't allow anyone to touch a hair on my head unless they have a PhD in Cosmetology, which I am almost one hundred percent sure isn't a thing.

I will say this for myself: I at least had the sense to request a level four student, meaning a student who's almost completed the program, and has had more hands-on experience. I was told over the phone that Jessica would be cutting my hair, and when I arrived the girl at the desk asked me to wait while she got Jessica. The first red flag went up when a young man who appeared to be about 14-years-old came to retrieve me from the waiting area. He introduced himself as Tyler*

Tyler was a sweet boy. He reminded me of the kind of kid I was in high school, and the kind of kids I hung out with back then. Part of me related to Tyler, and I wondered if he was the same insecure teenager I had been not so many years ago. I wanted to help him along on his journey somehow. Perhaps by imparting some wisdom to him, or just listening, or being his camp counselor. But though Tyler was a very sympathetic youth, by no stretch of the imagination did he inspire confidence. There wasn't a graceful bone in his body, and this became apparent to me within approximately one minute of meeting him. Every move he made was sharp and sudden. I wondered what he was doing here, and considered the possibility that he'd just walked in off the street.

I still had a faint, distant hope that maybe this kid was just prepping me for Jessica. I'd never seen anything like that, but who knows? Maybe the students had mentors here? Maybe he was just shadowing Jessica? I soon realized, though, that Jessica was but a happy delusion of the past, and that Tyler was my future. Whatever Tyler had in store for me would be mine to live with.

The first thing he did was brush out my dry hair with a fine tooth comb. As I described earlier, my hair was not exactly in a brushable state, especially not when it was dry. Also, Tyler did not know how to comb hair. He started at my roots and just tore his way down. There was a lot of muscle involved. It was the worst. I'm serious you guys, I still have a headache.

Next, he awkwardly "shampooed" my hair, which could me more accurately described as "rolling my unsupported head around in a sink while lathering my forehead and neck excessively." Meanwhile, he told me the story of how he had decided to become a hair dresser. "I had always straightened my own hair," he told me, "but I never thought of cutting hair. I went to community college for a semester, but I just wasn't interested in school. My parents (who he'd mentioned earlier that he lives with,) were totally cool with it when I dropped out. Then one day my friend's hair looked really stupid, so I told him to wash it and I would blow-dry and straighten it for him. When I was done, he said it looked really good, and he was like, 'man, you should cut hair.' At first, I was like, ‘no,’ but then I thought about it some more, and I thought it could be kind of cool, even though I'd be the only straight guy doing it. When I told my parents they were cool with it. So here I am... and I graduate next week!"

In my last ditch effort at optimism, I took comfort in knowing that Tyler was one week away from graduating, and was, in fact, a level four student. But my confidence was soon shattered when he asked me what kind of music I was into, and upon my returning the question, he answered that he liked "emo and hardcore." It was time to accept my fate.

After once again aggressively combing the ever-living daylight out of my hair, the first thing Tyler did was pick up the topmost chunk from the crown of my head and cut it three inches short. Like reverse bangs. Tyler and I had discussed in detail what I wanted done to my hair, and what was happening right now had nothing to do with that conversation. I really just wanted a trim. And now I had bangs on the back of my head.

He kept cutting with all the technique and sophistication of an ape. It was so random- as far as I could tell he would just pick up a piece and cut it whatever length felt right? He was free styling my haircut, you guys, and I knew it, and there was nothing I could do. Well, that's not entirely true, I guess. There was always the option of asking for someone else, but I really didn't want to hurt his feelings, because he was so proud of what he was doing. And that's another really weird thing about the psychology of getting a haircut from a nine-year-old. I felt the need to support him in his dreams, because he was so tender and vulnerable. I needed to protect him by telling him that of course he could be an artist when he grew up, and displaying his art on my fridge. Except that his art was my hair, and my fridge was my head. He genuinely thought what he was doing was great. He kept saying things like, "this is going to be awesome!" I couldn't see it, because he'd started in the back, but I was still pretty sure it was not awesome.

The haircut became visible as he made his way around the side of my neck, and I realized that this was even shorter than I was expecting, and that the backwards bangs were rapidly becoming 360 degree bangs. I was really, really worried. I asked if he thought I would be able to pull it back in a ponytail, as this was my only hope for hiding this obscene haircut until it grew out. "I don't know," he replied, then, looking at the student next to him, "Emily*, do you think she'll be able to pull this back in a ponytail?" Emily replied in an exasperated, Hermione-esque tone, "No, and if you keep cutting it that way, she's going to look like she has a bowl on her head.” When he started to protest that it was too late to change the pattern, she interrupted, “She doesn't want layers that high around her face, Tyler" ("...you harebrained buffoon!"). Emily then demonstrated to Tyler how he could try to save my haircut in the remaining two-inch margin on either side of my face. Half an hour later as he worked on some final touches, he exclaimed, "I'm really glad Emily told me to do that!", solidifying my distinct impression that he had had no exit strategy until that moment. I actually came that close to having a bowl cut.

Before he "styled" my hair, he told me he'd need to have a teacher come look at it. A man came and examined me, and asked Tyler, "what do you see here?" He was pointing to either side of my face at the ends of my hair, directing Tyler's attention to the very plain fact that one side was longer than the other by at least an inch. The teacher touched up my hair a little himself and blended the layers, but told Tyler to fix the length issue himself.

Finally, Tyler “styled” my hair with a diffuser, repeatedly praising its volume. I would be much more inclined describe what was going on as “unruly poofiness,” but yes, I suppose “volume” is another way to put it. If there had lingered any trace of hope that Tyler had a genius master plan that would justify this goofy haircut and turn everything around at the last minute, it was obliterated. I looked like I’d just woken up after sleeping on wet hair. Tyler declared it “awesome.”

After this two hour ordeal (seriously,) I went to the front, and the girl at the desk, who'd already gone over the pricing with me for the various levels of student experience, charged me for a level one haircut. There are two possibilities here: one, she saw my hair and felt really bad for me, or two, they always charge Tyler as a level one because even though he's graduating next week, everyone knows he's a dud.

Now that I’ve styled it properly a few times, I’ve decided that I can live with it, and maybe even go out in public on occasion. I’m going to have to get it fixed by a professional because I’m sporting the “two haircuts for the price of one” look on the sides, where the highest layer is taking on a life of its own and looks like an independent haircut. But I'm fairly unemotional about losing so much length. After all, it's not like I cared about the 'do I was rocking before- not like I patiently and painstakingly "grew it out" and nurtured it. I seriously just forgot about haircuts for a year, and it kept growing because hair does that, and then one day I realized I couldn't brush my hair anymore, which kind of ticked me off. I was actually kind of mad at my hair at that point in time. So... good riddance, I say!

The experience reminded me of this great commercial for a Cosmetology school in Utah that exhibits a healthy sense of humor about the risk one takes when receiving a haircut from a student.

Lesson learned. Next time I get a haircut, I'll just go to Cognito.

*In the interest of protecting Tyler's identity, Tyler is not Tyler's actual name.

*Emily's identity is not protected by a pseudonym, because I don't want to diminish one drop of glory due to her. Sweet, sweet Emily. Merciful goddess of the Salon School. Helper of the helpless. Thy name shall ever be revered among the mortals. Amen, and Amen.