August 23, 2011

The Anatomy of a Haircut

Yesterday I went for a haircut.  I put on a dress and dropped the boys off and got a giant diet soda and headed to the salon.  I love love love getting my hairs cut.  I love sitting and gabbing with Maggie, my hairdresser about all the latest reality sleaze.  We are both junkies and it's nice to be in like minded company.  Midway through my transformation, we realized that maybe we should have taken pictures to document the process.  But, though I am usually shameless, I will not pull out my camera phone and take pictures of myself all up in public for the sake of blogging about them later. ( I reserve that kind of behavior for my house)  But never fear, I'm documenting the whole thing right here in homemade pictures.  This is my before shot:
I was ready to ditch my blond highlights in favor of a fall hue.  If I could remember what my natural hair color was, it probably resembles something like that.  I got wrapped up in the cape. I think it's awesome that they recognize that I am a mother freakin' super hero and dress me accordingly when I get to the salon.  Plus, since I had on a dress and thus copious amounts of anti-chaffing gel between my dimpled thighs, I didn't have to try to sit cross legged while my legs slipped off of each other.  I could sit spraddled out underneath the cape and no one was any the wiser.

Me in my cape.  It is not monogrammed except for in my dreams.  SM for Super
Megan or Sip Margaritas or Screw Matthew McConaughey- take your pick. 

Then comes the color.  Now- blond girls don't have to deal with this, but us brunettes do. 
It is a phenomenon that I call "face poop".  It is where the brown color from your hair ends
up all over your forehead and you have giant brown globs of goop all over you. 
One of these times, I hope it drips in a perfect V and I can pretend to be an old school
Dracula with a freaky pointy hairline. But usually it just looks like face poop.
Then come the foils.  Oh my Lord.  Whoever decided that putting tin foil on one's head while coloring one's hair must have been high.  That is the only explanation.  And we DO IT happily!  And we feel like we are PAMPERING ourselves!  Putting on aluminum helmets in the name of pampering?  Maybe we are the ones who are high.  I'm just sayin'.

Then there is the rinsing, washing and actual cutting to take care of.   I told my hairdresser that I wanted bangs like Farrah from Teen Mom.  God help me that I'm taking my fashion cues from a girl whose only claim to fame is that her reproductive organs work.  Then we discussed Teen Mom at great length.  Isn't that what responsible adults do when they get together? 

As for the cut, I chose a picture out of a magazine while I was sitting in the chair. I said, "Ooooh! I kinda like this!" Then I realized that it was a picture of Leeza Gibbons. God help me again. Bangs from an 18 year old reality star and a haircut from a really old washed up TV reporter with boobs that are way too perky for her age.  Some people ask for the "Rachel" or the "Victoria Beckham".  Me?  I ask for the Leeza.  *sigh*

I walked out of there a whole new woman with my Leeza haircut and my Farrah bangs.  I'd take a real picture of myself but when I came home, that microscopic zit I mentioned in the first picture, beckoned me after staring at in the mirror for nearly two hours while I got my ears lowered.  I couldn't help it.  I tried to resist it's shiny redness calling out to me, but I was weak.  I poked and prodded and otherwise made a giant mess of my whole left cheek. I tried to put concealer on it, but it only served to highlight the crater on my face. So the best that you get from my makeover is this:

But that giant, goofy smile I have in every picture?  It never left my face because in my dreams my perfect afternoon is spending two kid free hours in a super hero cape.  Mission accomplished.

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