Hair.
I chopped mine off, and got a rooster feather extension.
I’m like a lost boy.
[I make no excuses for my faces. I get weird on camera.]
So there I was, sitting at my desk, and as has happened to me so many times before…
I got the feeling:
I hate my hair.
Except I didn’t hate my hair. It was just a disaster. A knotty, split-end, botched-color disaster. And that made me feel like a disaster. And I was about two minutes from turning my head upside with Scott’s hair shears. (Don’t ask.)
So I called Carlton at the local mall and asked for their next available stylist.
Her name was Kat, and I wouldn’t have guessed that she was more than 4 years younger than me but holy fuck, I was sitting in her chair in my j-crew summer dress with my bun on top of my head, and I suddenly started feeling really old and out of place in the Salon the girls at my high school used to go to to get their hair colored punky colors by professionals (At the time I was a bathroom sink cowgirl – hairstylists were not hard core enough for me and my color addiction.)
“I love how down you are..” Kat told me as I instructed her to “go nuts” and “just get rid of the damage, chop it off, and make me look cool.”
And when I asked about the rooster feather in her hair, I thought she was going to die of shock. “Hell yeah. Let’s do it.”
Kat was psyched. I was psyched too. Twitter had mixed reactions.
The feather seemed like a small way to reclaim some of my funky. But in doing so, I ended up feeling like a suburban housewife asking for blue streaks in her hair. Bleach Blond girls with sharp bangs used to be MY PEOPLE.
{I asked for an a-line and didn’t get it because I think I was deemed not hip enough. This is a new phenomenon of age I was not prepared for. Maybe it was because I was talking about my baby. Maybe I should shut up about the kid.}
Next time Kat, we’re going all the way. And I’m bringing even more rooster feathers.
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