Saturday, July 23, 2011

The Day I DID Get My Hair Cut

So many adventures, so little time.

A few weeks ago, I shared a story about the day I couldn't get my hair cut and then madness ensued... I'm sure you've been concerned: Did LeeAnne ever get her hair cut?! Inquiring minds want to know!

So stop fretting! I did, in fact, get my hair cut, and that story makes me chuckle as well...

You may remember that Mother Nature seemed to have a personal vendetta against my attempts to manage my mane...

The extreme weather didn't stop, by the way. Another week passed after my previous attempt and the rain and tornado warnings kept up. I was about to give up and take matters into my own hands, like one of my favorite train wrecks:

Fortunately, I didn't have to go that route. I finally lost my mind and called around to find a salon that would cut my hair. Tornado or not, my windswept hairs would at least be short if  the weather took me out.

I arrived at the salon despite ominous clouds and fell in love:
You'd think that phrase would be expected in a salon, but I was traumatized. Anyone offering to cut my hair at this point was an angel on earth.

I changed my opinion about the "angel" bit pretty soon after I arrived though.

Rude comment, yes. But I was so happy to be getting my hair done that I didn't care. Even though it did some damage to my ego, I let out a feeble "yes" just to appease her so she would would cut my hair. She was probably right: my eyebrows were so untamed that she might have mistaken them for caterpillars or a furry headband or rascally kittens. I couldn't fault her for that.

While I was getting my eyebrows waxed, the lights flickered a few times. The thunder was, well, thunderous. I was getting really nervous, but she was just chat, chat, chatting away. To calm my anxiety, I interrogated her before we moved on to the actual slicing and dicing.

I was in heaven. Chatty, chatty heaven.

Things were going as normal despite the tumultuous weather. Even after the sirens sounded, I considered myself in good shape.

I'm not sure why the siren sounded like it was really excited, but it didn't affect my hair stylist. She kept up the chit chat to my monosyllabic responses: "Yes," "no," "wow," and "huh."

But that chit chat came to a screeching halt.

Call me sensitive, but I didn't really know what to do with that. What am I? 

Sookie Stackhouse would say "I'm a waitress." That would make me a housing professional? That doesn't even mean anything to this lady. Was she confused about my gender? I'm a woman. About my legal status? I'm a US Citizen. About my mood? Content, until that split second.

I knew what she meant, but I still wasn't sure how to respond:

I, of course, chose to be difficult. When people are rude, I like to make them uncomfortable. That's probably not healthy, but I am what I am. The conversation went something like...

      "Excuse me? I'm not sure what you mean."
      "Well, what are you? Where are you from?"
      "I already told you, I live just down the block. I work at the university."
      "No, no, no. Where are you originally from?"
      "Oh! I was born in northeastern Ohio."
      "No, I mean, WHAT ARE YOU?"
      "Oh, you mean my ethnicity?"
      "I'm half Vietnamese. My dad is white, my mom is Vietnamese. They met in the war."
      "Huh. I don't think so. You're Polynesian."
      "Or maybe Hawaiian. Definitely. I lived in Bowling Green and I saw a lot of you people."

Oh yeah, that rude all right. But that horrifying conversation ended with shorter hair, at least.

I was happy again, so I tried to forget about the conversation and just have myself a nice evening.

Then I walked outside.

Mother nature still rained on my parade. Literally. 

So help me, I may never get my hair cut again.