Not even I give a good enough blow job to get away with that nonsense.
But that's what my hair costs to do, and by do I mean cut, color, highlight, lowlight, product up and style. All to cover some gray hair that four years ago I couldn't wait for. Kids, man, they don't know shit. I never used to pay anything close to that for my hair-do, or more honestly, lack-of-do. Washing it and sleeping on it was my Super Secret Style Technique. My product came in the form of elastic bands wrapped around my wrists. I cut it when it touched the next patch of hair on my body. I was unfettered by the confines of a society's rules for grooming and appearance.
I was Robert Plant.
And then I met a girl who did hair, seriously, for reals, and she showed me a world I didn't know existed. She also used my head as her model hair, so I never had to pay for it, which was awesome. And just like any good dealer of dealerable goods, once I was strung-out hooked she took away the freebies. She got the job she'd needed the model head for and I was left alone, cast aside, with a craving for Wella the likes of which I've only ever known before with a human being writhing under my skin who wanted hot dogs and peanut butter. ALL of the hot dogs and peanut butter.
And in about 2 months, I was Robert Plant again.
Over the years since then, I've amassed an impressive collection of hair styling pastes, salves, infusions and goops. I've learned how to pin curl, to swide-sweep bang, crimp, soft roll, straighten, wave, up-do, down-do...point is, I can do my hair. I just can't bring myself to drop the amount of money they'd like me to on it and since I've been shown the light and now fully appreciate the wonders of the Salon Proper, I only get it done two or three times a years.
And for the other 10 months of the year, I am, you guessed it, Robert Plant.
I'm usually pretty patient in-between haircuts. It's like the choice between the 7-11 coffee or the Starbucks, the husband or a vibrator...I'll wait for the real thing, thank you very much. I've got nothing but time, and no one actually ever sees me anyway except my neighbors who are used to the trainwreck by now, and my husband who actually hasn't been able to look me in the eye since the first little fingers clawed their way out of my vagina some 11 years ago. There's no reason to succumb to the Great Clips haircut when I know the Aveda one is coming. Sometime before I have to buy a new calendar. Maybe.
I totally gave in and got the Great Clips haircut today. I couldn't help it, really. I mean, I made it through BlogHer without so much as a trim, I went on my first business trip looking like an old mop, I've got two trips in the next two weeks coming up and I just didn't want to look like Robert Plant anymore, dammit. So I marched into the Great Clips where I take my kids and I told the girl who looks exactly like my kids godfather's sister to do something, anything, just make it look nice, okay?
She did. Plus.
Shut up. I haven't done it yet.
I am so fucking in love with this haircut, I can't even tell you. The longest layer used to be the shortest layer. She took more than 3 inches off the bottom and more than half the bulk out, and I still have a really kick ass head of hair. And it's actually kind of curly now, because she didn't just tell me to flat iron the curls my daughter gave me as a "Thanks for the great digs these past 9 months" present, oh no....she cut my hair to SUIT THEM.
And then she gave me a coupon for $10 any Old Navy Purchase for my kids, for back to school. The grand sum totally of this haircut? Contained the numbers one and six. Go ahead, guess which order. And as long as I can learn to love the gray, because hell, at least the carpet would match the curtains again, I can reasonably hope to get a cut every 6 weeks or so and not pay as much as I did for my last cut for, oh, a year and a half or so.
And I won't have to swallow a receipt, or anything else for that matter.