A Person’s Right to Choose
Not too long ago, a dear friend of mine (Let’s call her something fabulous like… “Bianca”) called me up in hysterics. It seemed that her boyfriend of over a year (Let’s call him “Big Fat Jack Ass) had fallen out of love with her and decided it best to break the news to her voicemail.
Margaritas were definitely in order.
I immediately went to Mezcal, ordered a drink and mentally rehearsed all the things I wanted to say about “Big Fat Jack Ass.” Fifteen minutes later, a woman who slightly resembled “Bianca” flopped down in the seat across from me. I was aghast.
“Oh. My. Gawd.”
All the wonderfully supportive things I had thought to say to her and all the venomously snarky things I had thought to say about him flew out of my brain in an instant.
“I know.” Her voice cracked and she buried her face in her hands.
My friend’s long, sexy layers and fun, flirty peek-a-boo highlights had been replaced by an unconditioned, blunt cut, dish-water colored bob that hung from her scalp like some dead thing. In fact, it was walking a fine line between “bob” and “mullet.” Sooooo bad.
I ordered two more margaritas.
“When did it happen?” I whispered.
“This afternoon. My stylist was booked so I just took the first available appointment.”
“But that’s a terrible idea. Why would you do that?” I tried not to scold.
“Hey, asshole!” she snapped. “For someone who’s spent most of his adult life sporting a mop that looks a helluva lot like a poor man’s Rod Stewart after a week of binge drinking, you sure are quick to judge. I just went through a break up! What’s your excuse?”
There was an awkward pause before she spoke again, her voice almost inaudible.
“I told the girl I just wanted something different. Edgy, but low maintenance. Now look at me. I’m a hillbilly.”
Without meaning to, “Bianca” had brought up two very important points: A.)Yes. My hair is a touch crazy… but I have genetics to blame for that, “Bianca!” That’s my excuse! Heartbreak heals. Cowlicks are forever! Now who’s an asshole?! B.)Too many cute hairstyles become statistics after a break up.
This is why I propose a law be put on the books, forbidding all persons from making any major decisions about his or her hair within three months of a break up. When love goes away, all too often, common sense goes with it.
It would seem that no one is immune to this phenomenon. I have another friend who is, herself, a hairstylist, and damn good one at that. She had spent months growing her hair out in preparation for her upcoming wedding style. After a particularly cruel fight, she and her fiancé broke up. The very next day, she chopped her hair into a stacked bob. Now, in her case, her new cut was super cute… yes… but she and her fiancé made up a month later and she was forced to spend hundreds of dollars on extensions she wouldn’t have needed if such a law were on the books.
Men fall victim to these impulses from time to time, as well. My friend, Nick, a gorgeous Italian Stallion with thick, wavy hair that promised never to fall out, allowed a friend of his to bic his scalp within three hours of catching his girlfriend necking with his college roommate. Senselessly tragic if ever a senseless hair tragedy there was.
Even celebrity hair is no match for a failed love affair. Remember when Britney took the clippers to her own hair, mid-divorce? Yeah.
I’ve seen pixie cuts on forsaken women with faces too long to support them. I’ve seen heart-broken men ignore their hair care entirely, leaving it to grow out unevenly, greasy and, therefore, leaving them without hope of ever finding love again. Bad home-bottle jobs and over-zealous bang trims abound when love is lost.
And for what? I say, when faced with heartache, take minute. Cool down. Think it through. I’m telling you… hair decisions made by the broken hearted never turn out well.
I’ve seen the consequences of many a bad choice when it comes to love and locks, but “Bianca’s” borderline mullet was, by far, one of the saddest.
“It’ll grow. And before you know it, the front will be long enough to cut into bangs. Bangs are cute on you,” I said.
She just sniffed and finished off her margarita.
“Well… it could be worse.” “Bianca” reached into her purse to retrieve her cell phone.
“My cousin’s husband left her for another man.” She scrolled through her photos and handed me the phone.
“No!” I gasped and slammed the phone closed.
“I know,” she said. “I didn’t even know they made perm rods that small anymore.” -- Steve Burge
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