Beware of stylists with bright ideas

By Gina Quilici

After eight fear-filled months of going without a haircut, I finally gave in and began researching various salons to see who I would trust with a pair of scissors.

I found a place I had gone to before, and being desperate (my bangs were now fully covering my eyes), I made an appointment. I am extremely elated to say that I got a good haicut.

You are probably asking yourself why (there’s that why word again) I am so afraid to get my hair cut. Either that or you are asking why I am taking the time to tell this story about my hair. Rest assured that both questions will be answered.

First, I am deathly afraid to get my hair cut because I have wound up with more hideous hairdos than Tammy Faye Bakker. Second, I am telling these stories for no other reason than to amuse you. Happy?

Let me set the mood for my first tale of woe. Picture it, September, 1985, Homecoming night, senior year in high school. I set out for the beauty salon with a few friends to get the most stunning hairdo I could stand for the Homecoming dance.

The hair creations began and when the man was done it looked great. I loved what he had done. I even allowed him to do my make-up for me.

Then, at the last minute, it happened. He said he had one final touch that he wanted to add to my hair. He moved me away from the mirror, as it was a surprise and he didn’t want me to see it until he was done.

The results of his little surprise nearly killed me. He generously streaked my hair a lavender/mauve color. Yes purple! My hair was purple. To this day, I still can’t believe it. It probably wouldn’t have been nearly as bad, but I was the Homecoming queen (no comments please) and had to be under the spotlights many times that evening.

I paid my 50 some dollars and walked out in a stupor. I had no time to fix it so I just swallowed every bit of pride I had and went to the dance.

Needless to say, I never went there again. A few years later, after a few more bad hair encounters, I tried yet another salon. I had a big date the next day and wanted that perfect look. Actually I only wanted a trim, but I can dream can’t I?

Well, my trimming of the bangs turned into a Marine style buzz. When the woman was done, the hair on the top of my head less than an inch long.

Now couple that little peach fuzz with the sides of my hair, which were one length and fell well down to the middle of my back. My hair is naturally curly and looked like an honest to God poodle. I kid you not. Once again, I was crushed.

I finally grew out those bangs and dared for yet another haircut. Believe me if I didn’t need them so often I wouldn’t get them. As I sat in the chair I put the fear of God in the woman telling her every horror story that ever happened to my hair.

I’m pretty sure my mouth formed the word “trim,” but she just didn’t get the idea. She said my hair would look much better shoulder length and before I knew it, at least five to six inches of my hair lay on the floor. Yet another lost battle.

So, with those three stories alone (there are more), I feel pretty justified in fearing the salons. Do you blame me?