I ALMOST HAD A MULLET!
Yesterday, I came the closest to a having a mullet that I have ever been, and hopefully the closest that I will ever be. You fly too close to the sun, you get burned.
Many of you have heard me talk about how I'm afraid to get my hair cut in Spain. There are too many mullets, and I just don't trust the hairdresser to do what I ask, or my own Spanish to ask the right thing. But I live here in Madrid, so I need to get over that. I like my hair better short. Quit being a baby, Kelly.
So yesterday I took the plunge. I was feeling pretty good about myself, all proud because Victoria and I found a SWEET APARTMENT that we can actually afford--and it's ours! (I'll tell this story later). Anyway, I was so excited that I decided to celebrate with a haircut. There was a trendy looking little place near where Victoria had to go talk to some people from her school, so I took a gulp and took a breath, and went ahead and signed the scroll. (name that movie!)
I should have been warned by my hairdresser's own 'do. He was balding in the back, but that didn't stop him from having a reverse mohawk--the middle very short and the sides about an inch long--and dyed blonde. Only the sides. He also was wearing man capri's. Another sign that I should not have trusted him with scissors.
I showed him a picture of what I wanted--sort of a Meg Ryan casual flippy thing, and he said, "We can do this, but we can adjust it a little bit for your hair type." Ok. Sounds like this guy knows what he's doing.
After this came 45 of the most excruciating minutes of my life. I sat helplessly in the chair as he used texturizing scissors to cut 1 1/2--2 inch long pieces on the top/back of my head. But only the back. And only the top of the back. There was still a long fringe (like right above the shoulders) at the bottom, and random long pieces all over the back. In the front, there was one like 1/4 inch wide section of hair that became sideswept bangs. That was probably the most acceptable part of my haircut. Then the sides were long, and not layered. Like below my chin, not a single layer.
Once the scissors were put away and I had started breathing (I'm too much of a wimp to say something to him), he then proceeded to add products. And more products. And more. I left looking like a Spanish rock star. My head had corners. The short pieces were spiked, and the long part, because of all the products, hung straight and strong, kind of like dark, shiny hay.
It was a little better after I washed it. A little, as in no longer spiked, and no more hay. Other than that, still bad. The sides--well, imagine a basset hound's ears. That's what it looked like hanging down on the sides of my head. I could push it behind my ears and it wasn't so bad, but then my head had corners again.
I'm really sorry now that I didn't take a picture of it yesterday. I could have looked back on it with fondness. Or something. Today Victoria and I took Heather's scissors and comb and played beauty salon in the downstairs bathroom. It actually looks pretty good now--almost how it looked when I first came to Spain, but a bit shorter. From now on, Victoria is my hairdresser.
So I came close to a mullet. If I had to title the species of 'do that sprang from my scalp, I would have to say that it was a "Half Mullet with Dog Ears." Put that one down in your books, hairstyle magazine.
Moral of the story: when it comes to hairdressers, trust your instincts.
Many of you have heard me talk about how I'm afraid to get my hair cut in Spain. There are too many mullets, and I just don't trust the hairdresser to do what I ask, or my own Spanish to ask the right thing. But I live here in Madrid, so I need to get over that. I like my hair better short. Quit being a baby, Kelly.
So yesterday I took the plunge. I was feeling pretty good about myself, all proud because Victoria and I found a SWEET APARTMENT that we can actually afford--and it's ours! (I'll tell this story later). Anyway, I was so excited that I decided to celebrate with a haircut. There was a trendy looking little place near where Victoria had to go talk to some people from her school, so I took a gulp and took a breath, and went ahead and signed the scroll. (name that movie!)
I should have been warned by my hairdresser's own 'do. He was balding in the back, but that didn't stop him from having a reverse mohawk--the middle very short and the sides about an inch long--and dyed blonde. Only the sides. He also was wearing man capri's. Another sign that I should not have trusted him with scissors.
I showed him a picture of what I wanted--sort of a Meg Ryan casual flippy thing, and he said, "We can do this, but we can adjust it a little bit for your hair type." Ok. Sounds like this guy knows what he's doing.
After this came 45 of the most excruciating minutes of my life. I sat helplessly in the chair as he used texturizing scissors to cut 1 1/2--2 inch long pieces on the top/back of my head. But only the back. And only the top of the back. There was still a long fringe (like right above the shoulders) at the bottom, and random long pieces all over the back. In the front, there was one like 1/4 inch wide section of hair that became sideswept bangs. That was probably the most acceptable part of my haircut. Then the sides were long, and not layered. Like below my chin, not a single layer.
Once the scissors were put away and I had started breathing (I'm too much of a wimp to say something to him), he then proceeded to add products. And more products. And more. I left looking like a Spanish rock star. My head had corners. The short pieces were spiked, and the long part, because of all the products, hung straight and strong, kind of like dark, shiny hay.
It was a little better after I washed it. A little, as in no longer spiked, and no more hay. Other than that, still bad. The sides--well, imagine a basset hound's ears. That's what it looked like hanging down on the sides of my head. I could push it behind my ears and it wasn't so bad, but then my head had corners again.
I'm really sorry now that I didn't take a picture of it yesterday. I could have looked back on it with fondness. Or something. Today Victoria and I took Heather's scissors and comb and played beauty salon in the downstairs bathroom. It actually looks pretty good now--almost how it looked when I first came to Spain, but a bit shorter. From now on, Victoria is my hairdresser.
So I came close to a mullet. If I had to title the species of 'do that sprang from my scalp, I would have to say that it was a "Half Mullet with Dog Ears." Put that one down in your books, hairstyle magazine.
Moral of the story: when it comes to hairdressers, trust your instincts.
posted by kelly_w at 2:14 PM
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