Celebrity Makeover

Right before Christmas, I received a celebrity makeover. "Yay!" you're thinking. But no. Not "yay" at all.

I should be clear from the get-go that I hate getting my hair cut, which is why I only do it about twice a year when things get really unfortunate looking. I feel the same way about getting my haircut that I imagine many people feel about going to the dentist: uncertainty, fear, suspicion.

It usually starts off badly when the stylist begins with the dreaded question, "So what do you want to do this time?" a query which I find myself completely incapable of answering in a way that elicits any approximation of what I believe I've described, as if English words and phrases such as "take it in here" or "layers" or "lighten up" take on some coded meaning inside the hair salon, the cipher for which no one has ever bothered to teach me.*

Also, as a type-A person, I feel suspicious of any scenario in which I must release complete creative control to someone I don't know personally in a familial or lived-through-some-period-of-great-joy-or-trauma kind of way. The hairdresser's chair, as most women are likely aware, is the home of dangerous hierarchy: violate the unspoken code that her opinion is paramount and you may find yourself in a world of hurt.

My most recent beauty trauma started with a conversation that went something like this:

Me: So my hair grew out too much and now I need to get it cut.
HD: Great. So what are you wanting to do?
Me: Well, I'd like to get rid of this shaggy part in the back here where it looks like I just woke up all the time...
HD: Oh no, see I really like that part. It's just that it doesn't make sense with what's going on in the front. 
(This is where the wheels begin to fall off, because I'm not quite sure what about hair could make sense or not make sense. However, if forced, I would put sheep-like shag in the "doesn't make sense" category, which is what I was trying to say, but I don't want to appear completely ignorant or go against her opinion so I say...)
Me: Mmmhmmm....
HD:  See we could take this up a bit...
Me: Mmmmhmm....
HD: without losing too much length.
(They always seem to say this, "not losing too much length" even if you really are, some sort of beauty reverse psychology, I think.)
Me: Mmmmhmmmm...
(And then she goes in for the kill.....)
HD: Something like, you know, Jennifer Aniston.

 (Now, you show me a woman in this country that does not dream of looking like Jennifer Aniston and I'll show you a liar, which is why this is a really evil trick. Because I start thinking that I just might end up looking like Jennifer Aniston if I go with this "not too much length loss, leave the shag in the back" plan. And maybe it wouldn't matter that I would also have to lose about half my body weight, get daily spray tanning, plastic surgery and a make-up artist to make this possible. A new life suddenly seems possible. And so I say that which I will regret for the next 4-6 months:)
Me: Um. Okay.

And the snipping begins. And I am fantasizing about my new look and how it will probably change everything about my life, when I realize something totally inexplicable and somewhat terrifying is happening with the scissors that doesn't seem right, even to me, the hairdo-know-nothing. I try to keep my fear in check and say nothing, as the snipping continues, but I can feel the panic rising in my throat. I try to go back to picturing my new life as Jennifer Aniston Doppleganger when, all of the sudden in a flash, it comes to me: we're talking about two different Jennifer Anistons. The stylist was imagining the Friends, innocent-looking, pre-Brad Pitt, 90s version Jennifer Aniston, back when she was still Rachel Green:

who of course was still very beautiful, if not quite as hot as the angry-sexy-post-Brad-breakup-woman-in-her-40s that she is today. If I had known this was in the stylist's mind, however, I would have warned her that I do not have the same type of hair texture as the 90s Jennifer had. What I do happen to have is thick, puffy hair and incredibly strange sideburns that pouf out, making even this late 90s do an impossibility. But it was too late to turn back. So I waited and watched, and tried not to scream or cry or in any other way let on my despair.

When all was said and done, I did get a celebrity haircut. Unfortunately, it did not resemble Jennifer Aniston of any era, but instead ended as a close approximation of a do made popular by another 80s/90s star:

Yes. My haircut was and is a precise imitation of Jon Bon Jovi. Just look at the photos and see how easy this mistake could be. In answer to your lingering questions, no, I am not kidding. and yes I was filled with shame and fled the salon afterward and cried all the way home, vowing that I would never cut my hair again, and hoping that the sweeping bangs which look so good on this rocker but rather silly on me, will grow back soon enough.

Until then, I think it's hairbands, hats, and the avoidance of US Weekly for a while. Why, oh why do I get douped every time?!


*I tend to have this same sensation whenever I go wine tasting where the use of phrases such as "chewy" and "fruity in the nose" and "full-bodied" are mostly meaningless to me and give me the giggles.