We all need some comic relief right now, so let’s talk bad hair days. Here’s mine.
One of my best friends is getting married in New York — black tie! — and I want to treat myself to a blowout. I’m staying at my aunt’s apartment, and the nearest Drybar is one block over. I note the low stars on Google but book an appointment anyway. “Don’t worry, it’s like McDonald’s!” I reassure my friends. “You pick what you want from a menu, and it’s always the same.”
I am a sorceress of self-delusion.
So what if the bathroom is dirty and the entire staff seems deeply unhappy to be there? From the smudged menu, I pick the “Cosmo-Tai” — a tousled wavy ‘do that makes you look like an extra in a teen drama (perfect) — and take off my glasses.
The Cosmo-Tai model photos from Drybar
The stylist washes my hair, and the water is ice cold. “They’re saving money on energy costs! That’s so great!” I tell myself. She torches my hair at the roots with the dryer, blasting my scalp with the fires of hell. “Cozy!” I think.
The curling iron comes out, and I relax and close my eyes. Then I feel my stylist sigh at every curl. Soul-searching sighs. Sighs of grief, exhaustion, malaise. I know that doing my hair isn’t going to bring her any happiness today, and frankly, it shouldn’t. A colleague passes by and asks, “When you get off?” and they exchange a brief conversation on the theme of: I want this to be over.
We all know this feeling.
“You have such fine hair,” she sighs. “I did it extra curly so it’ll stay for the wedding.” She twirls the chair around so I can see. Glasses go on.
In the mirror, a museum-worthy piece of abstract art. Asymmetrical curls, so tightly wound that if you pull them they spring back with a cartoon boing! Others a little cramped, like they got caught in a car door. Frizz exploding from a wonky center part that suggests I may have stuck my fingers in the socket to take the edge off. I ask, meekly, “Maybe we tease it out… a bit?”
I tip 20% and rush outta there, taking a quick selfie in the elevator up to my aunt’s apartment. “So, that’s a blowout?” she inquires from behind an iPad game of Rummikub. “Are you… gonna cry?” my life partner asks, worried.
No! I actually feel giddy. A hairdo so bad it’s hilarious. I wet my hands at the sink and try to tame the beast. Boing! The curls spring back. I consider a shower and then reconsider because of not caring that much. When it’s time to leave for the wedding, I pull my hair into a ponytail, a few curls sticking out like live wires, and make my way uptown.
Famously bad haircuts from Seinfeld, The Mindy Project, Fleabag and PEN15.
I told you mine, now you tell me yours.
P.S. Three CoJ readers get hair makeovers, and Jannelle gets the haircut she’s always wanted.
