Let’s talk about bangs for a moment, shall we?

18 Apr

My hair has resembled both of the above within the past 24 hours. I'm serious.

I’m not a typical girl when it comes to my hair. I can’t be. I mean, while I would like it to look good, in reality I’ve quietly accepted that I will never toss thick flowing locks over my shoulder.

No, I was born with a shitty hair gene: it’s thin and fine and 30% grey (in my 30s) and I fully expect to be one of those old ladies with a comb-over, who inspires other women to purse their lips and whisper, “Well bless her heart…” (Hell, maybe they already do, for all I know?)

It’s all right – I also inherited cool blue eyes, a pretty decent IQ and a metabolism that allows me to consume a sick amount of calories without becoming obese, so I shouldn’t bitch about my hair. It’s easier to buy a wig than a stomach staple, I suppose.

Anyway, it doesn’t stop me from dreading haircuts. I’ve gone to the same stylist for years. He’s a sassy gay man from Prague who regales me with stories about his quest for oral sex, and who seems to hate my hair as much as I do.

Case in point: today’s conversation (imagine a Draculain accent) was:

Tom: So tell me. Vhen you svim, you vear goggles but no hat?
Me: No, I wear a swim cap.
Tom: So how does your hair get so fucky?
Me: Are we sure it’s from swimming?

This is the same guy who suggested I use Rogaine and then didn’t understand why I disappeared for a year. (I’ll admit it, I was pissed. I tried six other stylists, but no one seemed to know how to work with my cowlicks or coax my thin mop into looking remotely inspired, so I returned, tail between legs, pretending I’d moved abroad for a while.)

So I keep going back to the guy because he understands my hair. You know the adage, “You can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit?” Well, somehow he does. And he’s actually pretty funny when my skin isn’t too thin.

Anyway, I think he’s getting a bit cocky about my trust. Today he started working on my bangs and I closed my eyes. “I fink bangs are so firty,” he enthused while he cut. When I re-opened my eyes, I felt like the mirror reflected a promotional shot of Jim Carey when he was filming “Dumb & Dumber.”

So if bangs are flirty, who am I supposed to be hitting on? On second thought, I might need that wig sooner than planned.

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