Edward Scissorhands . . . He Is Not . . .

Dear Lord,

Just a short question for today.

What is it about boys and scissors?

That's all.

Off to Supercuts to fix Ethan's homemade hairdo.

Annie

Gleefully Coming Out of the Closet on Vacation

Vacation was fabulous.

Thank you for asking.

While in sunny Florida playing by the pool and relaxing at the beach, there was only one thing that bothered me.

My hair.

It was in that in-between stage.  The stage where is doesn't fall quite right.  Usually this stage comes before long hair, but truthfully in 10 years, I have never made it past this stage.  I try to endure the hair in my eyes, and  I try to embrace the messy look, but after 27 days of wearing a bandanna to tame my locks, I usually give in and cut.

It is a vicious, vicious cycle, and I reached the end of the cycle while I visited Florida. 
The only solution to my problem was to do the deed, so I found a hair salon, walked in, and had them cut it.

No problem.

It isn't the best cut that I have ever had (remember when I was scalped????), but I figured that it would grow out and my girl (whom I love, love, love!!  Thank you Patty!!!) could fix it.  I was feeling quite good, and back to my sassy Annie-self.

That is, I was feeling quite good until Ab spied my new do.

Her comment?

"Mom, you look like the boy that likes other boys on that singing show you watch."

Yes.

Ab thinks I look like the character, Kurt, from Glee.




google images


Apparently, I now resemble a singing, openly gay teenager.

Seriously.

Stop laughing.



google images



It could be worse.

I could look like Puck.


(Incidentally, I am quite sure that hubs thinks that I pulled a bait and switch on him since I had long hair when we married.  When I cut it the day after our honeymoon, I think that hubs even shed a tear.  I, however, did a dance of joy!)

He's No Fabio. Just Sayin'.

Hubs came in the house beaming.  I could tell that he had just had his haircut, and he was carrying a brown paper bag under his arm.

He smiled and said, "Well?"

Knowing exactly what he meant, I answered, "Looks good.  Short.  Like you like it.  Which place did you go to?"

He grinned, pleased with my assessment, "Oh.  Up the street.  You know, the sports one," he explained as he shrugged out of his winter coat.

I giggled, knowingly.  "What?  What are you implying with that giggle?"  he asked.

"Oh nothing,"  I breezed.  "Except, isn't that the place where the hairdressers give you a massage while you are in the chair? "  I interrogated.

He blushed.  "Yeah . . ." he replied, his voice trailing off.

"Yeah . . . what  . . .?"  I pushed.

"Well, I did go to that hair place, and I did get my hair cut, but I also got something else. . ." Clearly, hubs was being evasive, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why.

I waited.

He eyed me.

I stared intently.

He dropped my gaze.

I won.

He began, "Well,  the shampoo that they use just feels so good.  So, I bought some, you know, for here."

Not understanding why that was such a big deal, I answered slowly, "OK.  So you bought some shampoo.  So what?"

And, as he pulled the small green bottle from the brown paper bag, he whisper rushed through his explanation. 

"Itwaselevendollars."

"I'm sorry, " I said.  "What?"

He looked me right in the eye, slowed down his speech and owned it saying, "It. was. eleven. dollars."

Then he held my gaze and waited for my reaction.

Finally, I could contain myself no more.  I dropped my steely gaze and burst out laughing.

Hubs was confused.  "What?"  he asked.  "What's so funny?"

And when I caught my breath I explained, "You just spent eleven dollars on shampoo for your hair.  Your hair that may be approximately 1/4 inch long  . . .on a good day!" 

Then, I continued laughing, and seeing my point, he had to laugh too.


Moral of the story . . .  Men are vain too.

 . . . and, I can not wait to switch his shampoo with the 99cent variety to see if he notices the difference.

The way I see it, the story and the pranks with this situation alone are definitely worth the eleven dollars.

No Good, Very Bad, and Really Horrible Hair Day

When I was 18, I could have passed for a prostitute.

It was not because I wore short skirts.  (In my defense, mini skirts WERE in fashion.)

And, it was not because I applied too much make up.  In fact, at this point in my make-up career, I had not discovered the wonders of mascara or of  tweezers ( I think Bert of Ernie and Bert, Sesame Street  fame would correctly describe my brows).

No,  when I was 18, I looked like a hooker because of my hair.

As a Florida girl in the early nineties,  my hair was long.  Very long.  Middle of my back long.  It fell in lovely, long waves and was chestnut colored with honey highlights compliments of the Florida sun.  Looking back,  my hair color was beautiful.  To die for really, but did I appreciate it?

No.  I did not.

So, the summer before my freshman year in college, I decided to color my virgin hair.

I asked for some low lights.  I opted for some caramel colored tresses to mix in with my own natural highlights.  I pointed at pictures in magazines.  I pointed at color charts in the salon.  I was confident in my decision.

That is, I was confident until the stylist wheeled my chair around to the mirror for my tah-dah moment.

Except, there was no tah-dah.

Just crickets.

Then tears.

Then snot. 

And, more snot.

Instead of the caramel-y streaked tresses in my vision, my hair was white.

Madonna, in the Blond Ambition tour, white.


(Compliments of madonna-online.ch)

Skunk stripe white.


(compliments of Looney Toons and above mentioned gallery.)

It wasn't pretty my friends.

Not pretty.

I cried the whole way home, the rest of the day, and finally I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up and momentarily forgot my hair fiasco.  Then, I walked past a mirror, caught a glimpse of my unrecognizable self, and commenced crying again.

With my very dark brows, dark roots, and olive skin, I looked very much like a street walker . . .and I had no one to blame but myself.

That wasn't even the worst part.

When I went to work that morning to my camp counselor job, one of the 3rd graders started to cry when she saw me. 

Bad.

When I asked her gently what was wrong, she wailed, "My grandma's hair turned white like yours when she got cancer.  You must have cancer!" 

Worse.

When I called the salon to make an appointment to fix my hair, they explained that I needed to wait at least a week with my hooker hair.  They did not want to be responsible for my hair falling out.

Worst.


I had hooker hair for a week, and I vowed never to go blond again.  My only regret about my experience?

I did not let my mom get photographic evidence.


******Linking to Mama Kat's workshop.  Read more BAD HAIR DAYS there.*****