I got my hair cut a few weeks ago. It went fine. It went great, actually. I went to Rev. Billy’s Chop Shop and Billy did exactly what I asked him to, which was to keep the length (my hair’s super long right now) and get rid of the split ends and general bullshit that comes when you don’t get a haircut for over a year. He cut a few layers in the back but kept it looking blunt and we talked about how my head, my hair, or my head and my hair I don’t remember, is a sculpture and it took all of 15 minutes (seriously that’s how long the cut took he is FAST) for me to feel like a human lady again.
My hair was getting kind of gross but I hardly noticed. I was just sort of used to having a massive nest of fine black hair interspersed with white strands (NATURE’S HIGHLIGHTS AMIRITE LADIES) and, I shit you not, occasional bits of lint.
Note to self: clean your damn house, Jasmine.
Billy asked if I wanted face-framing layers before he started the cut, examining my freshly washed hair in the mirror. Two haircuts ago, this lady at the Hair Cuttery (I KNOW) had cut a bunch of layers towards the back of my head that I was to push forward towards my face to make my hair look thicker or something but it never looked right. I always felt like I had a weird comb-over and the hairs near my face needed some tweaking. I should have said yes but something about the words “face-framing layers” makes me hear, instead, “CAMOUFLAGE FOR FATTY FACE FAT FAT FAT” and I just straight up said no.
I saw my big head and thought of this quote from Judy Blume’s “Blubber”: “Linda’s head is shaped like a potato and sits right on her shoulders, as if she hasn’t got any neck. She’s also the pudgiest girl in our class, but not in our grade.”
I wonder if Blubber might have had it easier if she’d had face-framing layers. Maybe I needed to get out of my head and out of “Blubber” and back into Billy’s chair and just trust him. Maybe I should have taken that beer the lovely receptionist offered when I checked in.
And who cares if my face looks fat because I am an actual person who is actually fat and that is not the actual worst thing in the world.
The longer I sat, in a smock with wet hair, looking at my dumb face, the more I felt like I didn’t look like Linda or Mrs. Potato Head. No offense, Mrs. Potato Head is mad cute for a plastic tuber with questionable taste in headwear and far be it from me to question the appeal of a married woman, spinster that I am.
I’m not trying to serve plastic potato realness on the daily.
We kept it long. No face framing layers but layers in the back to make it look blunter. Medium warm blow-dry. Come back in six weeks.
I’ll let Billy give me face-framing layers at my next appointment, if that’s what he wants to do. I want a sort of long choppy bob, less Meg Ryan’s game-changing bob by Sally Hershberger and more if Karlie Kloss’s bob and Chrissie Hynde’s shag in the early 1980s meet in an alley to smoke American Spirits.
If my head is a sculpture, then maybe my face could be a work of art, and this mug is in need of a good frame.