A Major Life Event: Gettin’ My Hair Did (or “Hairanormal Activity: Stephanie is Possessed by a Wild Hair”)

Priority #1: I mentioned getting my eyebrows “did” the other day. This was before even deciding to get my hair did. And dude says that reminds him of a Missy Elliott song. (Dudes, how did I not listen to more Missy Elliott? I loved her.) He thought that’s where I got it from..maybe it was. But I have no idea. So anyway, here’s the very filthy song as an intro. Enjoy, fellow pervs. (Also, thanks dude. This song is nasty, and I love it.)

So. With that fun little nasty outta the way, let’s get to it.

~

I have an issue with haircuts. Heh. I have an issue with lots of things. First cleavage, and now haircuts. What the fuck? “Is she Pentecostal?,” you quietly whisper among yourselves. No, she isn’t Pentecostal.

I was sitting in the chicky’s chair, wondering why I’ve always been so afraid of changing my hair – that goes twofold. I’m scared to cut my hair short, and I’m scared to dye it. And that goes for “normal” short cuts and “normal” colors, not just scene styles or funky, attention-grabbing stuff.

And, as I was encouraging her to “choppa choppa choppa!,” it hit me.

Butch McFuckingGee. That bitch.

Somewhere around the time of the Titacular Ruination of Stephanie, my mother decided to allow Butch McGee to cut our hair (our being mine and my sister’s).

You see, Butch McGee was our immediate neighbor and, budding hairdresser that she was, offered up free haircuts. My brokeass mother was unable to turn down a free service, so she offered us up as sacrifices to The Ruthless Butch McGee.

The roiling river of acid finally hardened into a steely lump in my gut as I trudged forth toward The Eye of Sauron my doom. Butch McGee lured me into her lair with promises of loveliness and free-ness that would help the mother figure. Her lair reeked of fried things, turnip greens, dirty laundry and chitlins. The air laden with grease, the sticky particles struggled to find purchase as everything was already coated. Don’t dare touch a surface. You’d become one with the abode. Stuck forever to watch the family suck crawfish heads and watch reruns of All in the Family.

Her husband, a local tater chip distributor, was completely vegged out on a sticky recliner, watching “wraslin'” and chugging the cheapest beer on Earth. Her son (whom I had a semi-crush on until my brother tarnished his image in my little eyes) asked me if I’d ever had frog legs before. “They taste like chicken,” he swore. I took a little nibble and to his upturned, expectant brows said, “I guess so.” He smiled like he’d won a prize, then said he forgot that was a rabbit foot and not a frog leg. Then he blushed and went away, only to come back later to tell me deddy sed them was frawg laygs. They’d already eaten all the rabbit.

So I suppose that means I’ve tried frog legs. Sort of. Maybe.

Butch McGee set me down on a sticky stool. My thighs stuck to the vinyl top of the damn thing. I kept looking at her hair. It was this helmet-like thing. Or was it a mushroom? I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was it looked like my crush had two dads. And Butch McGee was definitely the manlier of the two. She was grumpy and brusque, abrasive and pushy.

Butch held me down on that stool, one hand gripping my shoulder with the force of Andre the Giant, the other hand snipping away at my now frizzy and grease-laden hair. Even my little eight/nine year old brain knew this was a bad sign: one hand forcing me down and only one hand snipping? Seriously, this could only end in tears. And it did.

I was so upset, my usual M.O. of hiding my emotions dissolved into a puddle of tears when she showed me my reflection in the mirror. Tears. Tears. I choked out a timid little “thank you Ms. Butch,” and practically ran the twenty feet home.

Bad. It was bad, y’all.

The pudgy little tomboy-looking thing was no more. No, no. In her place stood Stephen. That’s right. Stephen. Now I was a pudgy little boy with a soft voice and an extra-feminine shyness. (Shut up. This is my blog, and y’all already know I ain’t PC. So suck it. You know. The dick that I don’t have.) (But for a while, everyone sure thought I did.) (Except, WHAT THE FUCK, PEOPLE. No one should have been thinking about my privates at that age. Fucked up. This world is fucked.)

Helmet.

I had officially gone from long, curly hair to short, bushy helmet-head. Much like Butch McGee’s do. Oh yeah. Fucking bitchwhorecracklicker.

Shortly after the Haircut of Doom, the mother unit took us to a little local park. We walked over. I mean, seriously. It was right. fucking. there.

I always felt out of sorts at events like this.

What am I supposed to do, here?

Play with other kids?

But I was taught not to talk to strangers.

Plus. I hadn’t forgotten that little girl that shunned me not too terribly long ago. So I knew better than randomly trying to make friends.

I just kinda walked around, looking every bit the Charlie Brown (except I had at least three more strands of hair than him). Kinda mopey, kicking dirt, hands in pockets, face fearful and shy.

I finally stood in line at a slide. Just as it was my turn, this little girl darted in front of me and started climbing the ladder. The thing’s mother appeared and admonished, “Hey Spawn, that little boy was here first!” So Spawn backed off, and I started crying. Silently, of course. Spawner held Spawn back and insisted I go ahead. So I reluctantly climbed that ladder, in obedience to Spawner, slid down the slide…and went and sat down until the mother unit was ready to leave.

And this was a mild version of what happened from there on out until my hair finally grew back out. God, the bullying was intense at school.

Anyway. This is less about that and more about the why of my haircutaphobia.

So. There.

~

Fast forward to sometime last year. Hell, it’s probably been closer to two years now. Yeah. My hair was down to my waist – all one length – and nearly to the point where it would be getting caught in my jeans again. And I knew I needed to do something about it. Or at least I had an urge to. I was tired of being afraid of short hair.

I’d cut it up to my shoulder blades a few times over the years. But the ex loved the long hair, and I loved it, too. So that was as short as I was willing to go. But I started getting anxious for a change.

So a couple years ago, I got this cool, funky cut. Kinda reminded me of Mikasa‘s awesome hair. Except it was just past my shoulders at the longest layer. But it was semi-choppy and cool. And totally different. I asked the chick to give me long, funky layers. And man. That’s all I told her, and she gave me my favorite haircut ever…to that point.

It was cool and funky, and I loved it. Well. Fast-forward about six months, and I knew I needed to get it updated. Bring all the layers back up. But I couldn’t find the chick who had done it. She had gotten fired from the place I found her. So I called the number she gave me…and I was told she no longer lived there. And I haven’t been able to find her since. I have her first name and her profession, and that’s not good enough. I’ve called so many hair salons, and they all tell me she’s not there.

This past Thursday, I had a wild hair (hardy har har) and made an appointment with a new chick. (Oh. Forgot to tell you, I let a dude from the first chick’s original place cut it…and he ruined it. Fucker. So that’s why I went two years without messing with it again.) Anyway. New chick. I’m going all anxious crazy person on the phone with her.

I had this haircut a couple years ago.

It was awesome.

Best haircut ever.

Then the chick disappeared or got fired or died or something.

Then Ricardo cut it, and he ruined my life forever.

And now I’m calling you. I mean, no pressure you know?

Can you give me something fun and funky and choppy and shaggy and cool?

Yeah, but can you give me something that works straight or with curls? Cuz my hair is naturally very curly!

Can you tell I’m nervous?

I’m nervous.

Can I come in today? Is that okay?

Okay. Today. What time again?

That’s today, right?

At 4:00?

Is that with you or someone else?

So today at 4:00?

And and we can talk about it when I get there? Before any cutting commences?

Yes, much laughter was had while I was rambling and anxious and kind of freaking out on her. I was talking fast but friendly…but very clearly oh so anxious. She finally said, “Just come on in at 4:00, sugar, and we’ll work it out.”

So I’m sitting in the chair, after she shampooed the shit out of it. (There wasn’t actually any shit in it. Unless it’s like fly shit. I bet tiny little microscopic bugs shit all over us.) (Fucking. Ew. Fucking. Ew. Thanks a lot.) I showed her some piccies.

She told me which ones would not work, because my hair would look like a curly mullet on days I decide not to straighten it. So those were an obvious no go. I showed her one, and said look…this is what I want not to look like: the fat chick that tried choppy cool layers. She laughed her ass off and said, “oh honey, you’re not gonna look anything like that. Relax.”  Then it was my turn to laugh.

So she got to chopping, and then told me that she didn’t want to go any further until she dried it and let me see it. Once she dried it? I was like duuuuuude, CHOPPA CHOPPA CHOPPA! More layers! More movement! More choppies! More chunkies! More shaggies!

She laughed and said I was fun. And they tried to get me to go out to a pub with them. I know I should have taken them up on it, but I didn’t…I didn’t. Maybe next time. I also went ahead and told her to put her house on the market, because she has to follow me to Oregon.

Best. Haircut. Of my Life, dudes! I freakin’ love it.

I’d show you if it weren’t for stupid internymity. That’s Internet anonymity. It’s cool as fuck, and I love it. I even have little bangies, and it’s juuuuuuuuuuuust long enough for the tiniest ponytail on Earth. And I actually think I could let her go choppier next time!

~

So I have a badass new haircut that I debut at work tomorrow. I’ve been off for a few days because of plans that went awry. But I kept some of the time off and accomplished so many personal achievements that I’m glad plans went awry. I don’t believe everything happens for a reason. But I do know that I seized the opportunity, took the bull by the horns, made the best of it…ran out of cliches. You get the idea. And the haircut was just the start of it.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll tell you about masturdation (yes that’s a D, not a B) and parks and recreation and making friends and influencing people. Perhaps, perhaps. Soon.

But for now, just the haircut. Because I need to go shower and shave and have a late dinner and get my ass to Mars bed.

I’m going for my orthopedic consult tomorrow. They want to put rods/pins in my left foot. But I’m going to hold my ground and request we try a hard cast and crutches before going for the surgery. Either way, this needs to be sorted before the move.

Fuck, I’m hungry. I’m going to eat and shave and all that fun stuff.

Peace, Love and House Special Fried Rice.

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What about my armpits?!

So I’m getting ready for work this morning. Or attempting to. About halfway through my shower, I realize I had thrown out my razor yesterday. (I use disposable razors. I know. Environment. Anyway.) So I climb my soaking wet ass out of the shower, crossing my soapy fingers that I don’t slip and break my neck. What? Would you want to explain that to the paramedic? Anyway. I digress. I open the cabinet under the sink and commence to rummaging around for a new razor. Much to my chagrin, I’m all out. How could I have overlooked this?! HOW?

I stood on the purple bathmat, shook my dripping fist to the heavens (or to my horribly tiled ceiling) and cried out, “What about my armpits?! HUH? WHAT ABOUT MY ARMPITS?!”

Grumbling a stream of expletives, most of which most assuredly included some iteration of “fuck” or “sonofabitch,” I climbed my angry ass back into the shower to finish.

Here’s the thing. My armpits aren’t that fucking bad. I mean, there’s a super faint just barely there stubble. But I’m paranoid about that shit. I always have been. I’m wearing a short-sleeved shirt today, and I’m hyper-conscious that I haven’t shaven my armpits today. Like, the fucking world is going to end if I raise my arm and someone sees the microstubble! Quelle horreur! I will be the talk of the water cooler. Just what I’ve always wanted.

This is a buncha bullshit!

Yeah. I began to wonder, as I applied deodorant to my freshly shaven armpits, where this fixation came from. Was there a starting point, from whence I adamantly believed that the key to good hygiene and social acceptance was an armpit as smooth as a baby’s ass? (Preferably one without diaper rash. Rashes are the worst.) And it hit me! I had my light bulb moment. The clouds parted, angels sang, baby unicorns frolicked and wept.

Jennifer. This is all Jennifer’s fault. I even remember her surname. But I’m not going to tell you. No! That wouldn’t be polite.

Jennifer was like this 8 foot tall third grader. Was it third grade? I don’t remember. I only remember the school, so it was definitely somewhere between second and fifth grades. She was poor, wore hand-me-downs and giant, too large for her face, pink spectacles. Worst of all, she had terrible hygiene. I’m talkin’ bad breath and B.O. I felt sorry for her then, because people made fun of her. On the regular. She was an okay girl, awkward, a bit too loud, but really just desperate to be liked. She was sweet. And kinda smart, too.

I remember one day she had forgotten her pencil. Or the lead had broken on hers. Something like that. No one near her wanted to lend her one. So I offered her one of mine. And it was then. My armpit fixation began right then and there in that elementary school classroom. Because as Jennifer leaned over and extended her arm over to me, all the armpit hair in the world spilled out from the short sleeve of her top and reached for me. I swear a burst of air from the AC set it to wriggling and waving in the breeze. It waved at me

Of course, I realize now that she was too young to be shaving and had hit puberty before the rest of us. Or else she was older and repeating grades. I’m honestly not sure which. I also realize now, which – to my credit – I had also realized then, her hygiene problems were not her fault. But I’m also strangely thankful to her for the complex she gave me that day. I – and all of my coworkers – should be thankful to her for making me aware of good hygiene practices. (Not that there’s anything actually wrong with a woman having unshorn body hair. But that’s a topic for another day.)

For now, thank you Jennifer. We all thank you.

~

P.S. This is the third post I did, well including the weirdass ranty “about” one. Way back on September 8. (I know, it’s been like soooo long. Ohmygosh. *flips hair*) And I’m being a lazy bitch and using it for filler since my brain is numb from Too Much Work Drama. Anyway. I thought I’d use this one, because I clearly haven’t told enough of you about my armpits. You’re welcome.