If you read this column last time, then you know what’s been going on—I cut my own hair.
And if you didn’t read this column, go to the East County Times website, and read it so that you can be caught up. We’ll wait.
Are you back now? Good. So, I got frustrated with my hair, and because my regular stylist was out of town, I decided to cut it myself.
Not one of my better moves…
After I sufficiently screwed up the top layer of my long, thick, curly hair, I called my stylist friend Brandon, who came over with his professional scissors to give my locks a look.
First, he looked at my hair dry. Then he told me to go wet it.
I sat in my kitchen with a towel draped around my neck, hoping that with his magic scissors he could make me look less like Moe from The Three Stooges and more like…well, anyone but Moe.
It didn’t take long. Some snips here and there, and he had fixed it. Ta Da!
Then he began spraying some stuff on my hair.
“Hey, what’s that?” I asked.
“It’s oil for your hair,” he said.
“But my hair is already oily. I’ve had oily hair my whole life.”
“Your SCALP is oily,” he quipped. “Your hair needs this. Trust me.”
I felt like he was speaking a different language. I was always told I had oily hair. Now I have to worry that my scalp is too oily. But my hair needs oil?
Boom…Mind Blown…
Brandon fixed my hair, though, and I was happy.
Until a few days later when Baltimore’s annual summer humidity, which has been ruining the hairdos of countless women since the beginning of time, officially kicked in.
My hair began to, ahem, swell up. And not in a good way.
I knew that I needed a little more cut off. But I was too embarrassed to call Brandon again. So I did the next best thing.
I called Sonny, my long-time stylist, who, by this time, was back in town.
“Sonny, don’t kill me.” I began the conversation.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Well, I cut my own hair.” Pause. “But I got my friend to fix it, and it looked great. But then it got really humid…”
“And your sides are too heavy, right?”
Thank goodness—this man knew exactly what my hair needed.
He squeezed me into his schedule the next day in the afternoon. Many snips later, my hair was lighter, and I knew that the humidity would no longer get me down.
“Don’t cut your own hair anymore,” he said. “You know I would have fixed it.”
I began to explain how he was out of town and by the time he got back, he would be full, and I would have to wait, and my hair would get heavier and heavier, and I’d have to stay inside because if I went out, small children would point at me and laugh, pregnant women and those with heart problems would have to steer clear of me, I would be snapping off brushes that would then get stuck in my hair…
He waited until I was finished with my diatribe. Then he said simply, “Don’t cut your own hair anymore. Ever.”
Funny. That’s exactly what Brandon made me promise.
So I have two great stylists in my corner now, which is a great thing for a woman who has always had more hair than the average five people put together.
When I told some friends about having cut my own hair, they all responded the same way: Hey, can I see it before you get it fixed?
Next on my list: finding new friends…
Michele Wojciechowski, when she’s not still beating herself up for cutting her own hair, writes “Wojo’s World® from Baltimore.