Just about the only thing I have never been able to do was to "roll" my hair in that classic way that women sometimes do, perfectly placing curlers in with ease, and sometimes without help of even a mirror (this is something my Mother is an expert at). No, I was not graced with that talent.
Usually, people complain that they can't "do" their own hair, or make it look good. "How do you do yours so well, Jackie?" they chime in.
Well, I was blessed with decently-thick, good textured hair. While it isn't totally straight, it has enough natural curl to it that it can be fashioned to do most styles with ease.
Lately, however, things seem to be on the decline. I have noticed that my hair is becoming harder and harder to manage... When I try to style my bangs, they revolt. Once successful styling techniques now appear to have blown away with the wind that now whips through my unruly, cow-licked mane.
I have formed a hypothesis as to why this is happening, although it has not yet become an official "theory". The time frame of my unsuccessful hair work closely coincides with the amount of time that I have been soliciting the services of Gay Male Hairstylists.
Now don't get me wrong. I am not Gay-bashing, nor do I have anything against the gay male stylists. Some of my very good friends are gay, and I admit that I come out of the salon satisfied, like, 100% of the time.
So what's wrong then?
I'll tell you! I believe this to be a conspiracy to get you dependent on their services... keep you coming back! They are highly-trained, and specially assigned to go out and work the clients into a gorgeous frenzy. They lure you into the salons with perhaps 1/2 off your first haircut. Then, they gently lay you back at the shampoo station, giving you one of those overly-relaxing scalp scrubs, making sure to get the back of your neck, and your temples... Ahh the stress just melts away.
I'm also convinced there is some sort of drug in the shampoo and conditioner they use. It smells too freakin good, and it does wonders on your hair. I don't want to wash it for a week after I leave, and feel "giddy" for several hours after my visit to said salon.
So after the shampoo, they begin working their magic with the haircut (perm, color, or whatever you're having done). They tell you their life story, they tell you about their boyfriend and his family and how great things are... you get caught up in his Cinderella story, all the while watching your hair transform before your very eyes.
Once the operation is complete, it's time to "Style". This may include an extra-soothing combination of the blow-dryer (oh that feels so nice on the back of my neck!), and curling iron and additional drug-infused-styling product such as gel, shine spray or hair spray. They whiz through the styling, telling you exactly how easy it is to get this exact look.
It seems very easy, and believe me--I've always been able to style my hair pretty much the way I want it (just as I said above). So I always have hope, and believe that he and I are on the same wavelength... truly!
Then he administers the final spraying of the
"Never had a better experience!" I think as I am whisked to the front. "And my hair looks even better than the last time! Unbelievable!" As I zip out my credit card.
Then I bounce away and enjoy the rest of my day looking sexy and smelling great. I skip around the house shooting my husband delicious looks from my hair full of body, and give him 'the eye' from beneath my perfect bangs. He says it looks really cool. I nod in agreement, giving myself a quick stare as I pass by the bathroom mirror.
[Two days later]
I wake up, still admiring how great my hair did and still looks from even two days ago, but regretfully I have to wash it now. I enter the shower (or bath tub), come out squeaky clean and armed with my styling products (some of which I was tempted to buy at the salon, that dirty little bastard), and give it my all. So far so good, it's looking like the hairstyle he had going. Then suddenly it all goes horribly wrong. I sprayed too much hairspray, or gel, my bangs have turned into a stack of curly-fries and my hair looks just like "Kitty Foreman's" from "That 70s Show".
I'm mortified. I use my spray bottle to mist it up, and perform emergency repair maneuvers... to no avail. I run out of time and have to leave despite the state of my locks.
What did that sadistic, scissor-happy little devil do to me?? Joke's on me, this time... but just you wait guy. I'll be back, and next time I've got your number! Game on!