so i got my haircut. thus begins the saddest story ever told (if you don't count the famine, war, violence and general meanness that characterises much of human history).
i've been going for a couple of years now to a nice czech lady who cuts hair out of a rose-coloured strip-mall salon of the kind catering to old ladies with tight perms. her two advantages, however, outweighed the general unsexiness of her place of business: 1. she's cheap, and 2. she's damn good. however, this time i was in the mood for something other than an expertly executed bob. i was starting to feel the need for some coiffure-mediated sex-appeal. this, thought i, is no job for mirka; no, this required someone with flair and flamboyance and fantasticity. i started trolling edmonton salons and rediscovered my man. the man whom i followed through 7 or so salons many years ago. the man whose haircuts were always inspired and made me happy and glowy and shit. in other words: THE MAN. he was back! woooo!
i booked with him and proceeded to gather photos of what it was that i wanted to happen on my head. (picture tousled, sexy, rock'n'rollishness and then a bit more sexy on the side)
then i got a call. apparently my man was going out of town and needed to reschedule. rescheduling is not something i am capable of doing at the moment so i chose to move the appointment to someone the receptionist warmly recommended.
y'all know where that is going, dontcha?
i showed up at the salon, all eager and trembling with barely suppressed excitement. to make sure things went my way, i had dressed as rock'n roll as possible to let him know i meant business. as i sat down, out of the corner of my eye i saw a viking sweeping up hair. never one to turn away free eye candy i looked and liked. two metres tall, long blond hair, swathes of pectoral and many other kinds of muscles peeking through the plunging neckline of his t-shirt.
turns out this norse god was my stylist. turns out he looks a scary lot like my cousin's behated ex. turns out he's uncertain. turns out he's of, shall we say, slightly-less-than-average intelligence?
this was the moment i realised that what i want in my stylist is swagger. i want him to be cocky! i desire from him a firm grasp of the realities of my hair vis-a-vis my face! i require that he tell me he will make me into a man-melting sex goddess and that he make it so! i demand certainty and a strong hand!
what i don't want is subservient deference. i ain't no hair professional! i don't know what'll work! all i know is that i most certainly do NOT want the hair equivalent of a minivan with stick-figure demographics on the back window, and yet that is precisely what i got.
oh sure, my classmates rose to the occasion and told me all sorts of glorious lies in a valiant attempt to make me hate myself a little less, and sure, it's hair, and it grows, but hotdamnitalltohell! i wanted to be a sex-goddess, not a soccer mom, and to add insult to injury, i feel a trifle guilty for not letting mirka have a go at my head. i suspect she'd have done a bang up job.
sorry norse god. and thanks A LOT for souring me on eric northman a little tiny bit!