A Really Bad Haircut

But it’s close.

I guess the main difference is that the brunette shag I somehow ended up with after requesting “a little darker highlights and a trim” is not as cute as Joan Jett’s hair was in the ’80s.

And no, I’m not exaggerating.

I went in with shoulder-length blonde hair, and somehow, without ever saying the words “shag”, “black hair”, or “spiky,” this is what my hair looks like now. I had the feeling my stylist and I had miscommunicated the last couple times–mostly I’d noticed her heavy hand with the scissors–so I even brought in a picture. I had never done this before, and I thought it guaranteed me the perfect cut that would not only give me self-confidence for these weeks that I’m huge and swollen and exhausted, but it would also be a style that would grow out well.

Just to be clear, the picture was of me with slightly shorter, slightly darker shoulder-length blonde hair.

And now I look like a not-as-cute Joan Jett. I went from being Chrissy to Janet (Three’s Company reference).

So, I guess at the end of the scalping, I could have pulled the picture out again and reminded her of our pre-masssacre discussion. Except stylists intimidate me, and I always feel like it’s my fault when I end up with an awful haircut.

Instead of complaining, I even complimented her on “all the layers.”

But, really, what am I going to do with all these layers? You know what layers do? Grow out! They require ridiculous amounts of maintenance. Joan Jett must have spent hours maintaining hers. Joan Jett didn’t have four kids–one of which will be brand-new, itty-bitty when the layers begin to sag.

Besides complimenting the sadist (and then deleting her contact information from my phone because I’m that spineless) I headed to the mall for a ridiculous amount of styling products. If there was a gel, mouse, brush, or clip that promised, “lift, shine, or your hair will look long and blonde again” then I bought it.

All this has taught me that I will NEVER try a new hairstyle again.

This is a promise. I will be eighty years old, my great-grandchildren will call me Bipi or some other Texas-grandma name, and I will still have the same pouffy, long, blonde hair.

Of course, this is a promise from a grown woman who didn’t have the guts to tell her hairstylist that she didn’t want to be Joan Jett, so really, can you trust me?