A giant leap of faith into the maw of uncertainty. Well, it is if you’re a big princess like me.
I need to have trust with my hairdresser, because I basically feel like they are conducting radical face surgery on me. When I lived in Caringbah, I found this great hairdresser near by and was extremely happy to have been so lucky. Anyway, imagine my dislocation when one day I walk in, sit down and discover to my shock that the entire décor had changed, I didn’t recognise anybody and the person who ran the shop now was somebody I went to school with. How did this happen? Shouldn’t they let you know? Because I had simply called up and asked for a booking, I was fine. But what if it was a butchers or something?
LACK OF STARS
I’ve just come back from a haircut and I’m very pleased to announce that it went fine. Hooray. However, sometimes things don’t work so well.
The most extreme form of this was also the most radial manifestation of my sleepwalking. I don’t sleepwalk much – in fact, I don’t sleep much. My sister on the other hands is a somnolent power walker who is angry at everything and has a lot of things to do.
Anyway, I’m not sure about everything I did on this particular night – all I know is that I woke up in our bathroom holding my swiss army knife, my fringe in my hands and only wearing my boots which I’d recently bought.
So after panicking greatly, calling up my friend Anna and crying a whole bunch, I decided that maybe a professional might be able to fix up the ragged stumps of my hair. At that point in my life I didn’t really have a style, so much as an enormous head of hair, like Jim Morrison or a lions mane. Except not so classy. Losing the fringe made it incredibly bizarre. Mullets looked better informed than this did.
I was living in Sutherland at the time, and wandered up to the main street. There was a barber with a grumpy looking Nam’ vet style person and a ‘salon’ with a really bored, fat looking lady with a beautiful feathered perm. I decided she might be able to help me.
As I sat down in the chair, it suddenly occurred to me that my story of waking up naked and de-haired via utility knife might be too much for this lady to handle, and sure enough she asked me in brusque tones ‘what the fuck had happened here’.
Flourishing under pressure as per usual, I paused for a moment and said,
“Well, you know how it is…”
I truly doubted she knew how it was.
“I let my grandma cut my hair…”
This apparently wasn’t good enough, because she looked at me expectantly.
It certainly was a reason, anyway. After the woman had her way with my remaining locks, the result was certainly different. She’d managed to butcher the rest into what can only be described as Medieval pageboy or Roman scribe.
However as bad as this was, nothing compares to the sheer psychological breakdown I had after I visited the Wollongong University’s on-campus hairdressers. You can’t really explain how bad this hair was, as it didn’t even have enough form to be compared to anything. It was unique, it was formless, it was beyond the constraints of mere words. It came from another dimension. I rolled around my friends house, drinking straight from a bourbon bottle crying and sobbing and muttering incoherently, and if addressed would only respond ‘Now I’ll never be a teen model.’
|Hair by Cthulu.