Edmonton Photographer | My Worst Nightmhair.

I woke up this morning with greasy hair that could use a trim, color that needed refreshing and the remains of a terrible migraine. The only thing that could make me feel better was a hair cut and some fresh color. My normal hairstylist works in St. Albert, and being pressed for time, I made an appointment with a trendy looking place here in Edmonton.

Now there is something that always bothers me about trying a new hairstylist. They are incredibly quick to criticise the cut that you currently have. My hair hadn't been 'filled' properly so it 'looked like I did it at home'. The cut was all wrong. I am good at blocking this out. I am sure that when I eventually hire a wedding photographer, I will be equally as picky. I am sure you can relate.

But I digress. I might have known this was going to be a terrible experience when I was driving to the salon and the only thing I could find on the radio was terrible 80's music. I love Edmonton's The Bounce, but today, they let me down. 80's was all the rage. The rock anthem I settled on was promptly interrupted by my cell phone. Unfamiliar with the number, I assumed it was a client, and answered the phone. It was the salon. Where was I? When would I be there? Was I further away that 3 minutes driving time? At this point I was NOT late. I am compulsively early. It will eventually cause me grey hair, so I know that I am going to arrive early or at least on time.

I pull up in front of the salon and the receptionist who was without a doubt in her late 60's, greets me by saying. "Amy, I presume. ____________ is in the back, waiting on you."

I scurry back through this very modern looking salon. Trendy and chic, I am in for a treat. ____________ has awesome hair. Bangs like I was going to request. I sit through the criticism of poor Denny who I feel a little sorry for cheating on. Was I making a mistake?

I look through the book and we settle on a color. Very very chocolate brown with a hint of red. Perfect! Color is applied, I wait my 40 minutes and then I am washed out! Fantastic! Just the color I wanted! This is brilliant. I mentally promise myself that I will without a doubt ensure that I make my hair appointments every 6 weeks as suggested to meet with this hair styling goddess.

How do you want your hair cut? ______________ says, interrupting my thoughts of how lovely I look.

I like what I have, but I would like bangs. I think they will make me look more polished.

In case we haven't had occasion to pass each other in the street in the last 6 weeks or so, I will help you. I have a bob. It is longer in the front than the back. Just the way I like it. It is carefully straighted prior to all public appearances. It needed a trim.

Well.

Suddenly I feel a tearing sensation from the back of my head and then to the front. Random all over my head, tearing sensations. _____________ wonders if I have had a razor cut before. Yes I say, back in high school when I had my hair incredibly short. It took years to grow out and I regret that haircut so much. Oh she says....

Bobs are out of style.

RRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP.......

Remember I keep my hair longer in the front. Well. Not anymore. The long hair that made up one half of my inverted bob is now sitting on the cape in front of me, in its new gorgeous rich dark color.

WAIT. What is happening? "Um, are you cutting both sides short like that?"

"Yes."

RRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP.......

Another avalanche of hair.

Ok. At this point I wanted to run away from this razor wielding lady who had tricked me into thinking she knew what she was doing.

Next I see the razor stike the front of my head. There are my bangs. I have bangs at least.

The razor continues and all I can do is look in the mirror with an absolute look of dismay on my face, not able to speak.

The razor finally stops and she starts blow drying. She needs to dry, straighten and then dry cut to 'Define my vision.' Clearly, this is her vision. Not mine. I had visions of being picked on in high school racing around my brain.

Well I will skip the drying and straightening and skip right to the part where she turned me around to show me the final result. There is high school Amy, with the unfortunate haircut sitting in front of me. Short all over, save for 2 giant clumps of hair where a man would wear his side burns. The back was all shriveled up and some of it was left longer in the back but the top at this point is an inch long.

High school Amy is still there, but she is joined by Mullet Amy. The Amy sitting in the chair didn't want hockey hair. Didn't want a business in the front, party in the back do. SHE WANT A TRIM.

Do you like it?

I hate to hurt peoples feelings. I generally try to be as nice as I can and follow the 'If you can't say anything nice....' mantra. I didn't choose not to say anything. I couldn't. I was, for the first time in my 27 years, rendered absolutely speechless. This was THE worst haircut I have ever seen. It was worse than when my beloved friend Rhea cut my hair and I looked like a Keebler elf until it grew out. It was just that bad.

You need to fix this.

Well, what do you want me to do. If I cut it any shorter in the back, you will have a Bob. Bobs are out of style.

I will tell you that after she had spun me around to see High School/Mullet me, I had been a little Ashen. Pale as a ghost because all of the blood had drained away from my face. Suddenly all of the blood in my body surged to my head. I turned a brilliant shade of red and people may have moved away from the steam that was shooting out my ears had anyone been standing close.

RRRRIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPP........

Trying to fix it. Thank God.

"You know, you are lucky I am giving you 2 haircuts on the one day. Really, you are only paying for one. Others would send you out the door." __________________ says cheerfully.

Suddenly a deafening whistling sound accompanies the steam going out my ears. In cartoons this signifies either quitting time at a lumber mill or someones head exploding.

As I look in the mirror, I see the Keebler Elf hair cut that lovely Rhea created 13 years ago taking form. The clumps of hair are removed from the front of my head. The mullet is removed from the back. It is a mess of layers all over. No longer than an inch, all around my head.

How does it look now?

I stand up in silence. Gather my wallet and cellphone and car keys and composure. I head to the till where she has already rung in my mess. I hand over my debit card and as I am punching in my pin number, she reminds me that I am only paying for 1 haircut, not 2 and that I have put her behind by about 25 minutes. She then passes me a business card and says it is hard to cut someones hair when they have no idea what they are looking for. She will record the color number and what she did to cut my hair to make sure I get what I want in the future.

IN THE FUTURE.

At this point, 2 hours later, I still have not regained any degree of spunk about the situation. I have thought, "It's just hair, it will grow' about 97 times. Perhaps when I reach 100 I will feel better. For now I am sitting in my quiet shocked state acutely aware that I look like a 50 year old woman in the hours before her Oprah make-over. There will be no Oprah saving grace for this High School Keebler Elf who narrowly escaped a mullett.

I am begging. Please if you see me in the next 3 years while I am growing this out. Compliment me on the lovely rich color I have in my hair and leave it at that. Please do not look at my hair and wonder why I am not in a tree somewhere, baking cookies.

xo
Amy