Wednesday, 3 July 2013

On the fringe.

To fringe or not to fringe....that is the question.
Well that is the question for me at the moment anyway.
I vacillate between desperately wanting to sport a cute as hell little fringe like these be fringed beauties.....
From top left in a clockwise direction
.....and having long hair that can be styled into a kick ass victory roll.
OK, I am not being completely honest here.
Let me tell you the truth.
I have some rather horrific fears of trying new hairdressers and as my last mistress of the coif left to follow other dreams I am without a cutter. I admit, when it comes to my locks I have some trust issues.
My hair is super fine and kind of frizzy and likes to fly away and I when I have one, I am VERY particular about my fringe. (I sound like a dream customer don't I?)
My last hairdresser (I miss you Kat!) was superb and knew exactly how to handle my tricky tresses.
I'm pretty sure that my fears stem from an experience about 12 years ago when I saved up all my lolly for a super duper expensive trim from a well known salon.
I sat with the stylist and as I was explaining about the bob I wanted in walked the rather famous hairstylist that owned the salon and had a bit of a hair care empire.
 (I should name and shame but I won't.)
The famous hair fella breezed in and began regaling all and sundry with tales of the Rolling Stones concert he had gone to the night before.
The fella was pretty excited. He was pretty hyped.
He was buzzing.
Eyes bulging, hands madly gesturing, talking a mile a minute.
I'll be blunt. If there weren't still some top notch drugs coursing through that mans body then I vow to never buy another handbag.
And then he made a beeline for me.
And he began to do that thing that hair stylists do. Combing their fingers through your hair, picking up a strand, weighing it between their fingers with their head cocked, and eyes squinted.
He asked what I had in mind.
I said a Louise Brooks style bob.
He nodded like he knew exactly what I meant, like he was going to fulfil my dream of having a sleek little swishy bob.
And he began snipping. And snipping. And snipping.
As more and more brown tendrils fell so did my hopes.
He talked at me non stop.
He dropped things. Scissors, combs. And still he talked. And still he cut.
When I dared look at myself in the mirror it was not Louise Brooks' visage that I met with.
Image found here
Nope, nothing like this.
Image found here
More like this. I had a Mrs Brady do.
It was hideous. It was really short and choppy on top with long wispy strands hanging from my poor savaged head.
I left the salon and walked down a bust and trendy Melbourne street in floods of tears, knowing not only that I looked wretched, but that I was an idiot as well.
For I had paid the man for butchering me!
I went home, continued to sob and boo hoo for a while, tried to come to terms with the new cut. Then gave up and went to a local salon to get it all evened out and made even shorter.
But I learnt some lessons that day.
(a) Don't go to coked up uber hair stylists.
(b) If someone massacres your hair, abstain from grabbing the scissors and stabbing them, but make it very clear that you will not be fecking paying for it!
(c) Hair does eventually grow but when growing out a terrible cut it seems to take forever.
So with all of this weighing in to the fringe debate I must decide.
I do want a lovely little side swept number.
So do I dare? Do I?
If anyone lives in Melbourne and has any recommendations for a good non coke fiend hairstylist I would love to know.
Does anyone else have any hair horror stories?

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