If I ever get rich, you know what I'm going to splurge on? Not a chef, because I like to cook. Certainly not a housekeeper, that would make me bonkers. And most certainly not a personal shopper, because, where would the fun be in that? No, the one thing I would immediately go out and spend some big bucks on is a personal hairdresser.
There are tasks for which I have quite an infinite amount of patience. Perusing the shoe tables at Dillard's weighing the respective merits of peep toe pumps versus sling back kitten heels. Reading Enlightenment philosophers for clues on how to rule the universe. Baking tray after tray of cupcakes. Working with dogs. But I have about 1.5 seconds of patience for anything that has to do with my hair. I am just so not invested in it. Hell, I even begrudge it the time I spend in the shower washing and conditioning.
About three times a year (what do you guys go more like six?) I manage to haul my ass over to my hairdresser, who does the whole tsk-tsk girl thing with me before expertly scrambling for the power dye and shears. Snip snip blow blow spritz spritz, in a few tortuous hours (during which I am at least able to catch up on some crap reading) I am once again possessed of a perfectly coiffed, perfectly colored head of hair. All day long – and much of the next in fact if I don't wash it – I just thrill myself silly with how super duper magazine cover ready my hair looks.
Until I wash it. Doesn't matter if I memorize every single move my stylist makes with his brush and blower I am never able to mimic his mastery. And truth be told, I wouldn't want to if I could, it just takes so much damn time. So what do I do? I spend the next three months pulling everything back into a ponytail and leaving it at that. So by the time I get back to the salon, it's that tsk-tsk shit all over again.
You know the only haircut I ever loved that loved me back? This one:
I should really give up hope that I will ever, ever be able to make long hair work for me and just go back to my roots.