It’s haircut time! Oh, endless misery and woe…
What I want is a 1990s-style graduated bob. Short in back, long in front, with a good, strong angle. And I want the bottom third of the bob layered. No bangs, no fringe, and yes, I part it on the left. It was that way when I came in here, it’ll be that way when I walk out.
What I get, more often than not – despite proper diligence and crafty refocusing techniques – is a straight-all-the-way-round bob, nothing fancy, no frills. And I’m not really looking for frills; I just want the back short. There needs to be some hott clipper-on-neck axxxtion or I’m not getting my ass out of the chair. The law has been laid. Down.
Having to argue industriously for a haircut is insane. Especially when photos are involved: I mean, I bring in photos of myself, in the cut that I want. Look, proof! I have had this cut before; I can indeed “pull it off.” I’m paying a (hopefully) highly trained professional to cater to my whims and to have them question my wants/needs/preferences is throat punchingly insulting, especially when it’s really nothing more than a simple trim. I’m not asking for a striking and stunning re-do; I’m not asking to get a foot taken off and the remnants dyed glow-in-the-dark; I’m asking for a cleaning up of what I already have, thank you very much.
Nope, I don’t want to add volume. Nope, I’ve not thought about getting a perm. Yes, remember, I part my hair on the left. The left. My left. YES, I’VE HAD THE CUT BEFORE, IT WAS CALLED THE ‘90S. YES, IVE HAD THIS CUT BEFORE, OH LOOK, I HAVE IT NOW. Why is it so hard? Whyyyyyyyyyyyy?
I’ve even been told things like “it’s salon policy not to go that short on women.” WHAT?! If I want a fucking buzz cut, I will get it because I’m paying you to give me one. Also, since when is one inch past chin-length considered short?
Luckily, I’ve had a great stylist for the past couple of years, so I don’t have to deal with new stylist bullshittery very often, but there are times when I’m out of town or she’s out of town or schedules don’t quite meet up or, you know, whatever, and I have to try to find someone who will do my bidding. It’s hard. Makes me bitchy.