Where are they now: Cha Cha’s hair edition.

Long-time readers might recall the ongoing struggles with my luscious tresses. Growing out a pixie into a bob? It’s not for the faint of heart.

It seemed to be stuck in a 70s Marcia Wallace phase for a long, long time.

And then when it started to grow out? I looked like I was livin’ on a prayer. Total 90s Jon Bon Jovi.

Then? I got a haircut that instead of being a trim ended up being more of a maintenance cut. And it looked like 70s Marcia Wallace. Again.

I was going for the Linda Evangelista. Instead, I ended up with more of a Shaun Cassidy.
For a while, I got high on my heady hair-growing prospects. I wanted Cher Hair! I was going to have hair down to my butt! It was going to be glorious!

And then I remembered that my hair is freakishly thick and the one time in my life when I actually had Cher Hair, it took an hour to blow dry.

I do not have that sort of time. So I changed my focus instead to more of a Louise Brooks bob.

I believe I am finally – finally! – growing out the pesky layers that make the right side of my hair flip into origami shapes. Which is good, because as my Crazy Stylist says? I no longer have hair. I have Engaged Hair.

No, I’m not getting extensions so I can have some craptastic up-do at the wedding. But each haircut now seems to have greater weight. One false move and my Engaged Hair could go horribly wrong! And I could end up with Bad Wedding Hair.

It’s a lot of responsibility.

My sacred haircut today turned out to be super interesting. Now, Crazy Stylist (you know, the one who blew off all conversation about the presidential election with a breezy, “Oh, honey, I can’t vote – I’m a felon!”)? She was talking to somebody when I got to the salon.

Somebody with really, really bad hair – like, two inches of dark roots and a bad home blond dye job. Somebody who … uh … wouldn’t leave.

Yes. My hair salon was overtaken by a crack whore who wanted to use the bathroom, then wouldn’t leave, then was convinced that her ride a) wouldn’t know where to pick her up; and b) didn’t have her phone number.

So, she kept calling the ride, asking the guy if he had her phone number, and verifying that he would be there to pick her up at 5:43. Not 5:45, not 5:40. But 5:43. And then she’d hang up, then start asking the folks in the salon where she was, because she didn’t know if her ride had her phone number, then calling him to ask if he had her phone number and if he was going to pick her up at 5:43 because, and I quote, “I just got my hair done.” Then she’d wonder if he had her number.

Finally, everybody in the salon was like, “He’s got your fucking number!”

And then she was asked to wait outside. Then she was asked to wait outside not blocking the door of the salon. And then a car pulled up and she tried to get in – only to find that it was the husband of one of the stylists, picking his wife up from work. With their baby. And a crack whore tried to get in the car.

Forget Nancy Reagan. Forget “This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs.” You want an effective anti-drug campaign? Spend some time with a woman who is so strung out she thinks she just got her hair done because she took a dump in a salon bathroom.

But my hair looks good. Still on track for Wedding (read: non-sucky) Hair. Over and out.
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