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And I have to force myself to go
to bed soon so that I’m reading to spring out the door at
7.30am, which will be a novelty in itself.
My last real “weekend” was fun filled
with all the important things. We caught up with Vdub, Dizzy
and T which was very fun. We discussed our ongoing lolaland
project, and T whipped out her laptop and started drawing
up a project plan in Microsoft Project to get us organised
and working towards a deadline. Easier said than done. Vdub
starts teaching multimedia tomorrow, so Big-P, she and I were
sitting around being excited-nervous together.
I got my hair cut yesterday morning
and it was dream. Up until yesterday, I have been something
of a hair-cut-slut. A run-around do, so to speak… I have never
formed a meaningful, ongoing relationship with a hair stylist
since I left home six years ago. Previously, I had been going
the same old-lady’s salon ever since I was a wee thing, before
I was old enough to realise that there had to be a lot more
to life than a hair dresser (who wore shiny black pants and
those weird zip-up grey shoe/sneaker things) giving me the
same cut for 9 years.
Since then, I’ve had a lot of one-cut-stands.
They cut my hair, I hate it, and I never call them again.
Of course, I’ve had to do a lot of scurrying quickly past
multiple salons dotted around Melbourne, head down, hoping
a former hair dresser wouldn’t see me with my new betrayal-do…
Yesterday all of that changed.
I walked into my newest salon, expecting the usual – they
sit you down, you try to explain what you want in ways such
as “I like it messy, but I have to be conservative sometimes,
and I like this bit here, but this spike on top looks weird,
etc” and they say “uh-huh” with a look of disdain and then
start cutting your hair while they shimmy to the dance beats
that are playing at deafening decibels, and yak yak yak to
the other stylists about the dance party they went to last
weekend. And your hair? Nothing like you thought you’d
explained, and it looks like shit. So you never call that
damn hair dresser again.
But this salon was quiet and peaceful.
The words to describe my perfect hair cut just flowed off
my tongue. I found I was eloquent when discussing scrunchie
bits, flicked bits, chopped-into bits and blunt bits. The
lovely Stan squinted while he looked at my hair (in context
with my face – what a pro!) and then we discussed several
options and he even gave me ideas for a longer term hair strategy.
Joy! He cut and chatted – he’s also a photographer and has
been working in Japan, so it was interesting as hell. The
colourist was funny and friendly and spent the time telling
me about the disasters she is having with house renovations…
I’ve found my dream salon.
And my hair rocks. Pity it just grows
out.
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