The Kentucky Waterfall

I’ve always had a traumatic relationship with haircuts. The nature of my thick, curly hair has meant that a poorly executed cut has usually left me looking like Woody Woodpecker, or on one memorable occasion, Bon Jovi, circa 1989.

Maybe it’s because I have to remove my glasses to get my hair cut, and thus can’t actually SEE what the stylist is doing. Or maybe it’s because my formative haircuts were always done in Quebec, in French, and I constantly had the feeling that I hadn’t properly explained myself, or hadn’t understood what the stylist had intended, although you’d think I could figure out what a “Gros frizzure” meant…

To compound matters, my hair grows very very slowly, so rebounding from a bad haircut takes a long time. The time of regrowth can be extremely traumatic. Let me illustrate this by expanding on a memorably horrific haircut. These are the events that occurred after the 1994 Bon Jovi incident 1. My first boyfriend dumps me 2. My sister commends me on how “brave” I am to be leaving the house looking as I do 3. I start university, meeting all new people looking like a mulletted freak show AND 4. have my Acadia ID picture taken in full bouffant glory, exasperated by a painful eye infection, making the photo on my student card look like that of a drug-addled 80’s glam rocker.

The last time I went short was in 1999. This was a less traumatic haircut, although tears were certainly shed… Consistently burned by bad Townships-hairdos, I went to an expensive hairdresser in Montreal. Her name was Gerlinda, she spoke with a thick Hungarian (?) accent, her salon played soothing music, she took an hour and a half to cut each individual strand of hair and she charged me $65 (plus tip) for the experience. When she finally laid down her scissors and said “I am done”, I eagerly slipped on my glasses. I expected to look like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby (but without the demon spawn), or Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally (but without the Billy Crystal). I DID NOT expect to have a Tennessee Tail, An Achy Breaky Big Mistaky, a North Carolina Neck Warmer, Hockey Hair or a God Damn Mullet. Fighting back tears I paid Gerlinda, (!) thanking her (!!) and tipping her (!!!) for her efforts.

I was rescued from total trauma when my good friends Serena and Sara arrived later that afternoon, bearing a sharp pair of scissors. They quickly cut off my “Party In the Back” and I was no longer bemulletted.

Since the big wedding I’ve been itching to chop it all off again. My little sister was visiting, and in a crazy haze of too much turkey, too much wine, too much fudge and too much hair, I agreed to let her play Emily Scissorhands.

Since the de-hairing,I have not cried once and I (gasp!) kind of like it. Thanks Emily, you are one in a million!

Here are the pics:

The "Before" shot -- lots and lots of hair

The crazed Stylists wielding her Scissors of Doom

Em at Work

Eek!

Holy Drowned Rat, Batman!

Huge, giant clumps of my hair (at least they won't be clogging the drains anymore)
Final Outcome:

And without the double chin
And there's the backview:

So there. When you crazy fools come and visit me,
expect something short and sassy, as opposed to long and bedraggled.