All I want is a perfect haircut
-- is that too much to ask?
November 11, 2008 | I must admit it -- I've lost faith.
Maybe I've just been chasing an unfalsifiable premise
this whole time. Because as far as I'm concerned, I
cannot prove that the perfect hairdresser exists.
Sure, we read about her/him in books and magazines.
This propaganda feeds us stories about how Mishayla
found the perfect stylist and now she is never going
back to her old ways -- she has reformed. And of course,
there are those girls who always seem to have the perfect
haircut that suits their pretty little faces and pretty
little personality to a T. Naturally, all of this has
led me to conduct my own search. It seems possible for
other people to have great hair and stylists, so why
I once thought I found my stylist soul mate a couple
years ago. After receiving a particularly horrible Utah
Girl haircut and subsequently crying for about a half
hour (as my dad rolled his eyes), I asked my friend
Sally for her stylist's number. Sally had been telling
me good things about this coiffeuse, so I went ahead
and asked her to fix my hair. And she did, though the
first haircut had left some irreversible damage. The
most important thing was, though, was that the Utah
Girl had disappeared. Whew! This stylist must be magic,
For the next few years, I went to her whenever I could
(she was in Bountiful, I was in Logan). Everything was
going perfect between us, and my faith in finding a
perfect stylist was at an all-time high -- I had found
her! But January 2008 rolled around, and I came out
of her salon with a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde haircut. The
front half of it was cool, the back half was scary and
stacked into a horrible layered poof. OK, maybe it wasn't
that bad. Maybe I just can't pull off extreme, short
hairstyles, and that was not the stylist's fault. (She's
not responsible for my chubby face and my much-too-round
features!) Still, I wanted an A-line cut, but she refused,
cut it squarely across in the back, and 'stacked' it.
I felt my faith dwindling as I walked out of the salon.
But I sucked it up and moved on.
I felt a fresh glimmer of hope one sunny October afternoon.
After not having my hair cut for months, I decided it
was time to risk it all again and put my heart out on
the line, er, get a haircut. I randomly made an appointment
at the Arkana salon in Logan, not knowing who my stylist
was -- now that's a risk! I ended up having to come
back an hour later than my appointment was scheduled
because the stylist wasn't finished putting mounds of
smelly goo atop foil on a lady's hair. And she asked
me to come back like it was no big deal. Whatever, I
needed my hair cut. I came back, and I still ended up
waiting for about 20 minutes until she finished the
now un-foiled lady's hair.
The stylist finally tended to me, but at least she
was apologetic. And she was nice and chatty enough.
But as she began to wash my hair, she began rattling
off all sorts of information about hair proteins and
the best hair products on the market and beauty school.
She gave off a sense of self-importance as she explained
every single thing she was doing, and why she was great
because she was doing it, and why she was ignoring her
boyfriend's calls. I ignored it, though, because I still
had hope for our relationship and because she told me
I was prettier than Jessica Biel. (Whatever, it was
a line to make me like her. But still -- the audacity
to say such things! Impressive.)
I had brought in the picture of Ms. Biel in because
I really liked her haircut (yes, it was from a cheesy
celebrity hairstyle magazine with an outdated picture
of Britney Spears on the cover). But what she gave me
was not a Jessica Biel, but a mop-top shag that mimicked
a snooty art student's hair. Thank goodness I'm not
an art major, otherwise I'd blend right in if I made
the right kind of snide-looking face whist tipping my
head to one side! Though I didn't look horrible, I was
unhappy, and my faith in finding that perfect stylist
Thirty dollars and three hours later, I left the salon,
feeling discouraged and disoriented, wondering why I
could never just be the girl with sexy, effortless hair.
At least my bangs looked good though, unlike after another
Logan salon experience I had where I left looking like
a wet kitten or Don Knotts. Yes, they looked good, and
a favorite man friend of mine insisted that my entire
hair looked good. Several times, in fact. After much
hesitation, I finally tried to believe him. The man
is sincere. After all, he wasn't trying to tell me I
looked like Jessica Biel.