Today I got a haircut. The end.
Just kidding. I’ll tell you all about it. Due to budgetary constraints, I once again found myself at The House of Heavelin, the local beauty school. Heaven? Helen? Heavy Lynn? Evelyn? Can’t tell you, the history of the name is not to be found on its hallowed walls. Pictures of 4 inch fingernails with rhinestones and such? Check. Faded posters of the hippest haircuts of 1996? Check. Directions to the crown of the head? Check. But no history.
I have gotten my hair cut here before, and it is better than I would do, and only $5. So, it’s worth it. Plus, by the time I usually get ready to spend money on a haircut, I despise my hair and would gladly burn it off with a lighter if it didn’t hurt. So, not much to lose.
This time, as I walked back to the chair, two other stylists-in-training asked “You doing a cut?” to my stylist-in-training (heretofore known as SIT), in kind of a surprised or cynical tone. This did not inspire confidence in me. “You should ask Miss Victoria to help you…” they said, to the scorn and disgust of my SIT. The other two left for lunch, and it was just me and Ms. Thang, and my nerves.
You gotta understand. I can handle kinda-bad hair. I’m a rocker, see? I can put some stuff in it and act like it’s what I was aiming for. Kinda-bad, yes. Scalped, no. I made some casual conversation, and learned she had been there a year, and was planning a career at Great Clips.
Lucky for me, just as my SIT was kinda haphazardly pinning my hair places, the instructor walked by and took over. As she was explaining to my SIT things like cowlicks, and layering… I was pondering within my heart… why does this last semester student not know this (I mean, I’m no cosmetologist, but it seems basic) information? I listened closer, and figured it out. See, I am a racial minority at the House of Heavelin. In fact, I was the only Caucasian customer. Things began to fall into place. Why there are none of the styling products I am used to. Why they had to go to the back for a different comb. And so on.
My SIT argued with the instructor a bit about how she had been planning to do it, but I was hanging with the instructor. Every time the instructor went to get the phone, the SIT would sigh loudly and start doing something crazy, like picking up a big chunk of hair and her scissors, and then the instructor would be back to direct her, “Now, we don’t want to do that with her hair because her hair grows this direction. See? That would make her have a sprout like Alfalfa.” Whew.
It ended up great, and my SIT was really happy, although she had a few things to say about the instructor when she left.
haircut: $5 +tip. Yesssssss.
Oh, and I am currently sporting a kinda sick greenish-brown color, which is what I do the day before I dye my hair red. I got a little smack at the beauty school, but when I told them my plan to not have pink hair again, they all got behind me in my goals.