When I was younger, I wanted to be a beautician. (For those of you who haven't seen Grease, that's what hair stylists were called back then.) At eleven, I saved and sent away for a Barbie Styling Head. The recommended playing age for this toy was 36 months to about 8 years. But I set aside my tweenage pride because I needed someone with long, perfect hair that would put up with a bit of brutal combing with nary a complaint. Barbie and I became fast friends. She let me play with her hair for hours on end. I taught myself how to French braid, designed many an up-do, and even gave her perms (without the actual chemicals, of course). Though I was immeasurably tempted, I refrained from cutting her hair because I knew it wouldn't grow back and I didn't have the $13 for a replacement.
My mom had graduated from beauty school in the 60's and then worked as a beautician for about three and a half days before deciding she hated it. This was in the fashionable time of beehives as tall as the Eiffel Tower. I can only imagine how much teasing, taunting, and general bullying that it took to produce those results. But she had learned the skills and took on the role of family hairdresser. She cut, she styled, permed, and colored on demand. I didn't sit in an actual professional salon chair until I was away at college and needed my perm "refreshed" at an impossible time to go home. (Don't judge. It was the 80's.)
My WSU student card from 1988.
A significant change in our hair styles could take days, sometimes weeks because we had the distinct advantage of being able to transform it in phases, fashioning slight adjustments until we had the exact style we wanted without having to make an inextricable commitment. (Yes, my mom is a hair styling saint.) The first time I had my hair cut "for real" at a salon other than Chez Mom, I was too terrified to actually have them cut anything off. I'm sure I ended up with the world's worst DPI (dollars per inch) cutting ratio in the history of salon-dom. I suspect the stylist just stood behind me lightly tugging on my hair and making scissoring noises while I sweated profusely.
Given my interest in styling hair, my mom started teaching me the basics; how to section off the hair before cutting, to use my fingers as a guide for the scissors, how to properly roll hair around a permanent rod, and how to ignore the instructions in most store-bought perm and coloring boxes. In my early teens, she offered up her head for my first perm (with actual chemicals). She let me trim the back of her hair that she couldn't reach. I guess she figured I couldn't do any worse than she could. Brave friends became my guinea pigs (if guinea pigs sported Farrah Fawcett styles). I started being able to picture how hair would look if I did certain things. But I was too tentative with my friendships and scissors to do anything too drastic.
One late night in high school, my younger sister came home and asked our mom for a haircut. Mom tiredly and wisely suggested it wait until the morning. I, on the other hand, was ready to take on the challenge of creating the short 80's punk-ish style my sister had in mind. She recklessly agreed. I started cutting. Somewhere down the hall I think I heard my mom quietly praying. I soon realized that cutting hair short demanded a rather high degree of precision. Precision that wasn't quite yet in my skill set. So, from side to side I went. Until my sister had very little hair left. Luckily, she has an incredible sense of humor and sense of self, so we laughed and laughed.
In the light of the next morning, my mom was slightly shocked at the results. (And frankly, so was I). My brave sister wore it like a warrior. She's always looked better in short hair than most.
Given my interest in styling hair, my mom started teaching me the basics; how to section off the hair before cutting, to use my fingers as a guide for the scissors, how to properly roll hair around a permanent rod, and how to ignore the instructions in most store-bought perm and coloring boxes. In my early teens, she offered up her head for my first perm (with actual chemicals). She let me trim the back of her hair that she couldn't reach. I guess she figured I couldn't do any worse than she could. Brave friends became my guinea pigs (if guinea pigs sported Farrah Fawcett styles). I started being able to picture how hair would look if I did certain things. But I was too tentative with my friendships and scissors to do anything too drastic.
One late night in high school, my younger sister came home and asked our mom for a haircut. Mom tiredly and wisely suggested it wait until the morning. I, on the other hand, was ready to take on the challenge of creating the short 80's punk-ish style my sister had in mind. She recklessly agreed. I started cutting. Somewhere down the hall I think I heard my mom quietly praying. I soon realized that cutting hair short demanded a rather high degree of precision. Precision that wasn't quite yet in my skill set. So, from side to side I went. Until my sister had very little hair left. Luckily, she has an incredible sense of humor and sense of self, so we laughed and laughed.
In the light of the next morning, my mom was slightly shocked at the results. (And frankly, so was I). My brave sister wore it like a warrior. She's always looked better in short hair than most.
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I briefly considered, and just as quickly discarded, the idea of a career as a beautician. Between my mom's personal horror stories and what I thought to be the archetypal barber shops in our small town, it didn't seem very appealing. I had no measure of what life could look like as a successful, high-end stylist.
My hobby has worked out for me over the years though. In college, as an underage student, I routinely bartered a $2.99 six-pack of beer for a haircut from the 21+ crowd.
Since then, at my bi-annual salon appointments, I've tracked my stylist's movements like a dog near a kids' high chair at dinner time. Not because I'm worried he'll make a mistake, but instead, I'm hoping to absorb his technical and creative prowess. These days, I bust out my cape and scissors to cut my husband's and kids' hair and the occasional friend and extended family. We've had a David Cassidy mishap and color that just didn't take.
But so far, nothing the local salon can't fix. And as the Greek philosopher Aristotle once said, "θα αυξηθεί απόI" which translates to, "It'll grow out."
p.s. I just wanted to point out that I started a post with a Grease reference and ended it with Greek. Not just anybody can do that.
My hobby has worked out for me over the years though. In college, as an underage student, I routinely bartered a $2.99 six-pack of beer for a haircut from the 21+ crowd.
Since then, at my bi-annual salon appointments, I've tracked my stylist's movements like a dog near a kids' high chair at dinner time. Not because I'm worried he'll make a mistake, but instead, I'm hoping to absorb his technical and creative prowess. These days, I bust out my cape and scissors to cut my husband's and kids' hair and the occasional friend and extended family. We've had a David Cassidy mishap and color that just didn't take.
But so far, nothing the local salon can't fix. And as the Greek philosopher Aristotle once said, "θα αυξηθεί απόI" which translates to, "It'll grow out."
p.s. I just wanted to point out that I started a post with a Grease reference and ended it with Greek. Not just anybody can do that.
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