Time for a Trim: More Follow-Up

February 16, 2009 at 4:34 AM (Happenings) ()

Mom hates my layers, but she’s acknowledged that the hair’s on my head and that I have to deal with it.  Her sister’s reaction was something like this:

“Turn around: let me see.  Oh my God, it’s so much better!  You know, I was JUST telling your mother how I wished you’d style your hair . . . this suits your face so nicely!” (Mom grumbles, and I beam.)


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Time for a Trim

February 13, 2009 at 7:59 PM (Happenings) (, , )

I typically put off haircuts for as long as possible when I’m in Boston.  Being a poor college student, it’s tricky for me to justify dropping $40.00+ on a trim, especially when my hair is so . . . generic.

God bless Valentine’s Day and the pressure it puts on women to look stunning for their significant others (or lack thereof, in which case they can only hope to 1) foster feelings of regret in former or would-be other halves, or 2) attract a last second romance).

My roommate received an E-mail from Giacomo & Rondi in Kenmore Square for a Valentine’s Day promotion: $15.00 off any service of $35.00 or more.  If I’m not mistaken, trims by junior stylists are $35.00.  Freshly trimmed locks for $20.00 plus tip by some fine stylists at Giacomo & Rondi (even junior stylists are nothing to sneeze at) are a bit more feasible within my measly budget.  Count me in.

Usually my cuts are fairly uneventful.  I’ve never been one to experiment much with my hair.  No layers, no angling, no colouring, nada.  In fifth grade I grew out my bangs, and that was the one major change I ever made to the growth on my scalp.  Not being one to spend much time on it, it would be silly for me to get a hairstyle that requires any type of maintenance beyond daily washing and conditioning.  On an ambitious day I may blowdry it.  In addition, I will never forget my mother’s last words to me before leaving Boston after moving me in before my freshman year: “If you cut your hair, I will cut your funds.”  Admittedly, I like having long hair, too, but heaven help me if my tastes ever changed.

Last November, I was home for Thanksgiving and convinced my mom while we were at the mall that I needed a trim.  She gave me some cash and went to continue her errands while I got the locks cleaned up.  For months, one of my good friends in Boston had been trying to convince me that I should angle my then 18-inch bangs to frame my face and to layer the rest of my hair.  She was also pushing for me to get lowlights, but I refused to even consider that idea.  The layers sounded tempting, though.  I could still keep my long hair, and perhaps have a bit more volume.  And the hair that hanged on the sides of my face reeeally weren’t doing much for me . . .

I walked into the salon feeling just a little adventurous.  The last time I made any major change to my hair treatment since fifth grade was switching from Suave products to John Frieda Sheer Blonde products (which I love, by the way).  My stylist couldn’t have been older than I, and as I explained that I was looking to give my hair a bit of lift, she beamed and made the same suggestion about my former bangs that my friend had.  “Sounds great.  Go for it.”

Minutes later, the hair that framed my face barely touched my shoulders, and I was thrilled.  As my stylist started to separate the rest of my hair, she made a suggestion about giving my hair some layers, and seeing how well her first snips had turned out, I eagerly agreed.  “I like you,” she laughed, “It’s always fun when people are open to new looks.”  What could I say?  I liked how my hair was looking so far, and my stylist had no grudge against me (after all, I’d only met her maybe 10 minutes earlier), so I trusted her judgment.

That was when Mom got back.

She took one look at my shorter forelocks, and if looks could kill, I’d certainly be suffering from at least a flesh wound.  I didn’t understand.  My hair was still plenty long, and both my stylist and I thought that I was looking pretty good.  I tried to talk to her, but she was suddenly busy glaring at a wall.  My stylist looked as confused as I was, and lowered her voice to ensure that my mom couldn’t hear.

“Is she mad?”

“Yeah,” I whispered back, “I’m not exactly sure why, though.”

“Should we skip the layers today?”

“Better hold off this time.  If the bangs bugged her this much, I’m guessing that layers should probably wait for a while.”

We didn’t chat much as she trimmed the rest of my hair, but I still thanked her repeatedly once she finished up.  Mom may not have liked my hair, but it was attached to my head and I liked it.  “We’ll have to shoot for layers next time,” I promised.

I’m still not exactly sure why my mom was so upset about the hair.  It was still long, extending beyond my shoulder blades.  She had said something about the hair framing my face not sitting behind my shoulders and looking unprofessional, but I didn’t think much of it.  Purple hair is unprofessional.  If a few strands are that much of a distraction, I can always pull them back.

It’s been several months, and I’ve yet to try my layers.  Every time I’ve been home since November, I haven’t dared to so much as breathe the word “haircut.”  Mom’s probably worried I’ll completely lose it and get a crew-cut next time I set foot in a salon.  The split ends have been getting worse and worse, but without Mom paying for haircuts at home and with my frequently empty wallet, going for a trim just hasn’t been in the cards for me.

Until today.

I have an appointment at 6.00 P.M. at Giacomo & Rondi, where I have occasionally splurged on standard trims and have never been disappointed (up-dos are a different story . . .).  I’m in Boston.  Mom’s back home.  Today, I’m getting my layers.

Today’s Distractions
Russell’s lesson
Underworld 3

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