I told myself I hadn't gotten it cut because I was trying to grow it out...but the truth is I just haven't learned to trust a stylist since Joanna Ballentine broke my heart. She gave me the best haircut of my life and then up and moved to Alabama a month later to get married and live an adorable life and have an adorable blog. Not that I took it personally or anything.
I figured I might as well take care of it while I was home and had access to a salon I knew and loved. There's just something about sitting in in a room full of gossipy southern women that I find oddly comforting.
I asked my stylist to put some layers in and trim up the ends a little, and of course she threw in some complimentary hints regarding which of my fellow Wylie High School graduates are now in jail, divorced, pregnant with illegitimate children, etc.
As I watched the last remnants of my blonde highlights fall to the floor like so much broom food, I made a feeble attempt to console my aching heart.
Don't worry, you're better off without it! Think of all the money you're saving! Your hair's still kinda blonde...okay, who are you kidding. It's brown. But a very, very light brown!
Hold on, that guy got three different girls pregnant? He was in the FFA...and he was shorter than me. I don't get it.
At this point, my thoughts were interrupted by the lady cutting my hair.
Sassy Southern Stylist: "Girl, I cannot beeLEEVE you haven't hah-lahted this yet!"
Me: "Yeah...I'm trying to quit."
Sassy Southern Stylist: "It is jest the perfect color for it! You oughta let me hah-laht it."
Me: Don't do it! Don't give in! She's gonna try to do that dark brown underneath, platinum on top thing you hate!
"Yeah...I would...I just..."
...don't want my hair to look like a bad wig...have gotten used to my hair not falling out at an alarming rate...
"...haven't really found anyone up in Colorado I can trust to touch it up when the time comes."
Sassy Southern Stylist: "Oh, chahld, don't Ah know it! It can be so hard to fand someone you lahk!"
She whiled away the rest of our time together by wondering aloud how much plastic surgery Olivia Newton-John's had. "She's sixty? Look at this magazine; that don't look like no sixty year old woman to me. Ah mean look at me, Ah'm only fifty and Ah don't look nothin' like that, but that's just me, Ah'm just not into all that artifishull stuff. Ah do wish you'd let me hah-laht that pritty little head o' yers though..."
I composed a letter once I got home to express my gratitude, but I couldn't find the address of the salon, so I'll just post it here and hope it finds its way to her someday.
Dear Sassy Southern Stylist,
You stay classy, ol' gal. You have no idea how close I came to caving in and letting you bleach the crap out of my hair.
Your accent is like a drug to me and I find your boundless stores of gossip almost impossible to resist...not to mention the endearingly ironic fact that you don't seem to consider hot pink acrylic nails, a fake tan, or bleached out hair to be "artifishull."
You are what makes Wylie great. (Well, you...and Taco Delite. And Shoemaker & Hardt. Oh and my mom.)
The Girl Who Couldn't Remember Your Name to Save Her Life