Category Archives: Being a girl
I got a haircut today, perhaps the first one in a year. And I was thinking about how it’s basically my fantasy to have a hairdresser standing behind me in the mirror, looking thoughtful, and then they say, “Would you trust me to try something different here?” I would be like, “YES!” But what happens instead is they ask what I want, and I stammer out some haircut terms I’ve heard on TV, and then I either walk out looking much the same, or maybe with shorter hair.
Today, I look much the same. But in a good way. I like my new layers, and I enjoyed the “treat yo’self” feelings of someone else washing my hair. But it still makes me think of this blog post I wrote in 2008 about getting my hair cut in New York, the first time (since the age of 6) I got bangs.
Hairdressers, and the Women They Laugh At
America’s Next Top Model. Project Runway. Tabatha’s Salon Takeover. What Not To Wear.
These are just a few of the shows on TV now that take ordinary people who look like me or only slightly better, sit them down, and employ a professional to tell those ordinary people exactly what is going to happen to them. Be it color, cut, makeup, or wardrobe, those people can rest assured that they are not being judged or made fun of, but that said professionals are there to help them look beautiful. Is it really hard to believe that while watching the stylist of ANTM hack off Samantha’s long blonde hair, or give Elina a curly red weave, both of which come out looking amazing, that I can only say wistfully to anyone who will listen, “I wish Tyra Banks and her stylists would show up here and make me over!”
Alas, walking into a salon is not a screen test to get on one of these shows, and after today, I think I have nearly as high a level of Salon Anxiety as I do of White Coat Syndrome. (White Coat Syndrome being, of course, that uncontrollable anxiety around doctors, even when they are doing the most unobtrusive of check-ups.) For weeks – possibly months – I have been talking to myself about getting bangs. Studying other’s people’s bangs, trying to fold my hair across my forehead looking into a mirror, and going through magazines and online articles about Best Bangs For You. Finally I made an appointment at Nola’s in our neighborhood (it’s Salon backwards, how clever is that?) and I went down there this afternoon.
They are all legitimately Irish, which is charming as all get-out, and they’re very nice people, but I do not speak the salon language. I had, however, spent days prepping my explanation of what I wanted, so that when she said, “What are we doing today?” (in an Irish accent), I replied without hesitation, “I would like to keep most of the length, but do some shorter layers for body, and also I think I would like…bangs.” (Note: I had promised Liz I would say “fringe” but I was too nervous.)
She sat me down and started combing and everything was great, until she held a up a piece from the back and looked at me in the mirror and said, “How long would you like your layers?” And I couldn’t even respond, I had no answer. I pretty much said, “I don’t know.” I don’t know! Long enough to keep with the length – short enough so they are layers? Why can I not go into a salon and say, “Make me pretty”? I think she might have laughed at me a little bit when I said I didn’t know – I think this was the same girl I had last time, months ago, and we had a similar run in: When it was time for the blow-drying, she said, “How would you like it dried?” And I said, “So it’s…dry? And pretty?” And she said, “Would you like it straight, or flips…?” And I said, “Flips?” And she said, “Flips?” And I said, “Yes, let’s do flips,” which ended up being curls at the end, which looked lovely, but she did laugh at me a little bit then too.
So today she had to tell me how long she would do the layers, and I said that was great, and she continued cutting. When she got to the bangs part, she combed them out and then said, “You’re sure?” in the way that you would confirm the first cut of any big operation, and I said, “Yes,” and then watched my blonder front hair fall into my lap. She blew them out and sort of curled them under after she had finished everything else.
I love the layers, partly because they are all flippy at the ends (see? flips). The bangs I am not so sure on. To my still a little shellshocked eyes, I look like a cross between Peg from Lady and the Tramp, and a 12 year old at a school dance in 1998. Drew, who says he would tell me the truth but who I don’t completely trust in for the whole truth, says it looks like Anne Hathaway’s hair in The Devil Wears Prada. He just knows I think she’s beautiful though. So I am still unsure about them, although I sort of wish I had gone with my hesitant instinct and not done the bangs – I can always start pinning them back and let them grow out. C’est la vie.
Also, why is it that no matter how much makeup I put on, I get in the chair with nothing to look at but my face and my wet clumpy hair hanging all over or clipped on top of my head – and I am always ashamed with how I look. It must be the wet clumpy hair, but I can never prepare myself for that.
In short, please, TV (Bravo in particular), stop lying to me and making me think that hairdressers want to tell me exactly what they are going to do to make me beautiful. Also, if there is anyone out there who is a hairdresser, I will pay you good money to be a Tyra Banks to my Lauren. Doesn’t that sound like a good deal? Also, Liz, I hope your wedding is themed “Full House children” because then I will fit right in.
[The best part is, I then included a picture of myself with my new bangs, which I remember thinking was so weird-looking, but it really just looks like me now, except like seven years younger. Oh, and these are the bangs that ended up growing out and disappearing. This new iteration of bangs that I have now started in 2010.]
Today is National Poetry Day. The National Poetry Day theme for 2014, according to a random website I clicked on, is “Remember.” How fitting for a throwback Thursday!
So here is a poem I found on my laptop, in the “old computer stuff” section, which I cruise through whenever I want to remember what it was like to be 17. I don’t like staying there long. I was more prolific, but way angsty, and overall pretty obnoxious. There is something to be said for just being content.
This is from April 2002. It might actually be two separate things. None of the stuff in this particular document is titled…although there is some very interesting formatting in terms of font, size, use of ampersands, and justification.
I woke this
fierce I thought
it must have
When you left
Movie: The Little Mermaid
Release year: 1989
My reaction: I probably don’t need to explain myself to any girls born from 1980-1985. This is one of the best. Movies. Ever. I love every frame, every weird facial expression, every little quirk in this movie. It’s so good.
We were in Tahoe last weekend with two of my best girlfriends – fun fact, the three of us went to see a sing-along version of The Little Mermaid for a bachelorette party a couple years ago. So this was actually a pretty special coincidence, that it was the next movie in our line-up.
We ended up watching it twice last weekend: once on Saturday night, and then again on Sunday morning. I loved it each time. I would love it every time. I’m just saying.
To everyone who has little “But why don’t they just? But why doesn’t she? But she should just?” I say HUSH. This is the epitome of princess movies, to me. Ariel’s voice is THE Disney princess voice. It’s all wonderful. I’ve been waiting a long time to get to this one. =D
Five years ago, Drew and I packed up most of our New York stuff, and drove back to California.
Thank God Jared was staying in the apartment, so there was a lot of stuff we could just leave – like our bed, couches, rugs, etc.
We basically packed all night while watching Roseanne. In the morning, Joe came over to help us load up the van.
Also thank God we casually said, “Yeah, let’s upgrade to the largest size van you have.” We needed every square inch of space.
It took us three nights to get home, driving pretty much all the time. We were also doing Atkins at the time, so we weren’t even really stopping to eat very much…I’m not sure how we passed the time. I remember at some point we started playing Lingo out loud, and for awhile we listened to Rent…
I also took a lot of pictures out the passenger side window, so there’s a lot of semi-blurry landscape with window reflections. This was pre-smartphone.
(I’m pretty sure Drew took that picture.)
When we got to Nevada, we wanted to drive through to Reno so we could crash with Molly. But Nevada is insanely wide, and neither of us could keep our eyes open. So our final night on the road was spent in Elko, Nevada.
The next day, I drove us across the state line into California, and later Drew and I realized that whenever we’re in a car together, he may say “Do you want to drive?” to be nice, but I generally never do, and he generally always wants to. So now we don’t worry about taking turns to be nice to each other. A good lesson for our impending marriage.
It’s been FIVE YEARS since we came back. New York is drifting further and further away from us. But it’s still an indisputable part of our lives and of our relationship. I think a reunion may be in order.
This year, I’ve been one of those obnoxious girls with a “birthday week” – I just got lucky I suppose. From a party at work to a much-anticipated child-free dinner out, from besties sending unexpected presents to our luxurious night away while my parents babysat. It’s been a great birthday week.
One such unexpected present arrived on Wednesday.
It’s a candle that smells like birthday cake, and somewhere inside of the candle is a gold-foil-wrapped ring, which is worth anywhere from $10 to $5000. You have to burn it to find the ring, and this is a pretty hefty candle – I’m guessing it’ll take hours of burning to get to the buried treasure.
The card didn’t have a name or a return address listed – just a gift message that said, “Happy 30th! I think our 30s are going to be awesome.”
I texted the person who told me she had sent me something in the mail – but it wasn’t from her.
I texted the person who was most likely to have found a product like this on the internet – but it wasn’t from her.
I texted some of the girlfriends I could think of who are thoughtful enough to send a birthday gift – but it wasn’t from any of them.
I texted my brother (sort of a last resort) – but it wasn’t from him.
So my question is: who sent me this diamond ring candle?
(And will I get one of the elusive $5000 rings?)