Unbagging the Cats 1

Unbagging the Cats 1

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Vampire Vigor Whiner Why

You'd think I might  have learned my lesson by now. That I would take my tresses to an upscale salon for trimming. Treat my follicles to an Edwardsian $1250 haircut. Or at least shampoo my skull-cozy in a school faculty bathroom sink and let a third-grader snip it into style.

But you'd be wrong. I have learned no such lesson. I continue to return to the scene of my butchering like so many birdbrained swallows to Capistrano.

Cue the stabby Psycho music. I got another bad haircut!

Perhaps not ALL people would consider it bad. It's kind of a brunette Donald Trump 'do. So The Donald and Melania and Don Jr. and Eric and Ivanka might think it's perfectly acceptable. Well. We might need to disinclude Melania, because I'm not worth $2.9 billion.

I should have known I was in trouble when the only stylist I recognized was taking twenty minutes to shorten a little girl's hair. And I use stylist in the manner one might use to term Hannibal Lecter a chef.

My new cutter was spindly and pale. So pale, in fact, that she had careened down the path approaching the precipice overlooking the abyss of albino, and plunged into the chasm of bloodlessness. I have not read the Twilight series, so I have no clever references. But New Cutter could have been one of Bram Stoker's undead, what with her pallor and superhuman strength. Let's just say I was relieved to see her reflection in the mirror.

New Cutter carefully covered my neck with that gauzy stuff before strapping on the cape. It could have been a clue that she had plans for my carotid region later. Or she wanted something to keep my head from popping off during the cutting. Did I mention superhuman strength?

New Cutter asked if I was tender-headed. No. So she yanked her comb willy-nilly through strands that had been interwoven by the 30 mph winds that day. My head bobbled like an Albert Pujols bobblehead. She asked how much I wanted off. I told her about an inch and a half. I'm guessing that New Cutter has two daddies. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But they really needed to expose her to more women during her formative years in order for her to accurately measure length.

Next, New Cutter grabbed a handful of hair like she was latching onto Old Bossie's teat with the intention of milking her into severe dehydration. While lifting me two inches off the chair in with this technique, New Cutter sawed three inches off hanks of varying thickness. By the time she had finished, my head was as unkempt as that of Rachel Dratch as this SNL character:

Without the tiny arm.

I am seriously considering starting a modern-day Rapunzel movement.


Stephen Hayes said...

You certainly milked this story for all it was worth and you had me laughing hard in several places even though I felt bad for you. But where's the picture? Your friends want to...(giggle)...support you. I'm sure your beauty exceeds a stylists ability to damage it.

Sioux said...

Hey--less hair means a smaller head. A smaller head means you do not have to resist the urge to shampoo your hair in the faculty sink anymore. Do it.

Once you get stuck like a clown, you'll never live it down...

Leenie said...

What? No arm? You were robbed.

Val said...

Picture? Um...no. I barely have enough hair left to comb with a fork before the 1st Hour bell. A naked mole rat is more hirsute than I.

I shall not follow in your shampooing footsteps. I march to my own drummer. When everybody else was busy being a Pepper, I refused.

I counted myself lucky that she got out a new comb after dropping the first one on the floor when she failed to yank it free of my tangles. An arm was out of the question.

Yes, I was robbed. Of my dignity.