A Good Haircut is Hard to Find

Why is it that we (me) seem to inherit all of the bad traits of our parents? I have my mother to thank for my hair- thin, wispy and I hate to even think about the current natural color under my many coats of brown hues. The last hair dresser I visited said that she understood why I colored my hair because her mother's hair was like mine - she hardly had any either. (This is someone who obviously doesn't consider her tip when she talks) She didn't do a bad job on my hair but I did come out looking like I should be on the show Dallas. My hair was so big that I automatically ducked when I went out the door.

Most of my hair cutting and styling experiences go the same way. They ask how I would like my hair cut and of course I have no idea so I tell them to decide. One look at my fly-away thin hair and they quickly cut, blow dry and mound "product" on my head and send me out the door. They all but give me a hat to wear home. I think there is a picture of me by their cash register with a line through my head.

I once spent a lot of money (for me) on a stylist that advertised his cut would be wash and wear - easy, breezy and stylish. That is just what I was hoping for. I sat in the chair watching my hair being snipped away at a quick, confident pace. Then he slowed down and started tweak-cutting all around my head. Finally he stopped and said "you'll just need to put a few curlers in it"? What happened to easy, breezy and stylish? I'm sure he would have given me a babushka if he had one - instead I went home - through the back door, with bobby pins holding my hair in place.

Impossible hair made me finally decide that I was better off cutting my own than seeing the "I give up" look in the eyes of the so-called professional stylists. I usually gave myself the basic bowl cut but when I was feeling inventive, I'd try to go for the Liza Minnelli look - those jagged bangs were cool - on her. I looked liked my head had been cut with the dull razor I just used to shave my legs.

Eventually, I would always give up and try to find another beauty shop I'd never been in. I was running out of new places to go that were within a 50 mile radius of my house. I would have to expand my search. The worst part about going for a haircut after you had butchered it was when they would invariably ask "who cut your hair last". With only a slight twinge of guilt I'd always say "my neighbor". It made me feel better when the "tsks" and head shakes were due to my neighbor's poor skills. I really should move.

The interesting thing is that I have had a couple of good hair cuts. There were both spur of the moment and both in Europe. The first occurred when I was traveling in France with friends. I had not had a haircut in awhile and it was windy there. We were touring a place where they took spontaneous pictures that you could purchase. When I saw my picture, my head looked like "the flying nun" but I didn't need the habit to give me the wide wings- they were all mine and attached to my head! I was surprised that the wind hadn't lifted me off of the ground. (Well, maybe not surprised in that it would have had to be a pretty hefty wind)

We all had a good laugh - and I wouldn't let my friends buy the picture. The next day we were getting ready to do a church tour but my friend needed to stop in a camera shop first. As I was waiting, I noticed that above the camera shop was something that looked like a beauty salon - or beauty school - it didn't matter to me. I walked in and pointed to my head (luckily it was a beauty salon and not a psychiatrist's office). They spoke no English and I spoke no French but they got the idea. By the time my friends found me, I had a light, breezy and stylish "do"- a very expensive light, breezy and stylish "do". For almost the first time, I liked my hair.

My second - and last - good haircut was obtained the same way. This time I was in Venice Italy and found a salon. Again, we didn't speak the same language but the male stylist knew what I wanted. He began to massage my head, cut and stroke my hair over and over until he abruptly said "finit" and walked away. I have to say that I almost needed a cigarette after that experience - and I don't smoke. His assistant took over and dried and styled my hair. I loved it. I felt like running outside singing opera and twirling around. The haircut was fantastic - as was his "chair-side manner". I was happy as were all of the people in Venice that day - since I didn't know any opera to sing.

I've come to the conclusion that I must have come from a European heritage and most stylists in the USA don't understand pedigree - or maybe more women are going bald in Europe. I prefer to believe the former.