Yvette's Inner Geek Blog

This semester, along with everything else I have going on simultaneously, has not yet beaten me. There was a kid at my university who, on Tuesday, nearly jumped off the ledge of the building where I have most of my classes. I don’t know who it was, or what his overall situation was, but I’m glad he was talked down. I feel that my advanced (for college) age has provided me with a greater perspective on managing college stress… There, but for the grace of coffee, go I.

The most exciting thing I’ve done in the last couple months ended up looking like this:

Purple hair with bright blue streaks on top! Plus a layer of dark violet underneath.

Much more my style than the haircut I suffered in February. I took my aunt’s advice and brought photos (from haircrazy.info) of what I wanted to my new hairdresser. I met Erika while volunteering at Sundance Film Festival last year and decided from her hair and her personality that I’d give her a shot. She’s currently attending a schmancy hair/cosmetology/things-I-don’t-get school across the street from UVU, so it was convenient and far less expensive than it could have been. It took longer, but the end result was soooo worth it.

Because I did it mid-October, people assumed that I dyed it for Halloween. Total coincidence! I’ve been wanting to dye my hair blue or purple since my late teens, but there was always a reason not too: jobs, fear of my hair falling out from over-bleaching, and just being a plain old chicken. I’ve had purple streaks recently, but they weren’t as bold and only lasted a few days. Technically, having purple hair right now may affect my professional image, especially here in conservative Utah. Know what, though? Fuck it. I love my purple hair.

I’d have a pretty little nose stud, too, if I didn’t have legitimate concern about the teensy injury developing into a keloid scar.

I went back to the salon this morning and said that I wasn’t happy. I was basically handed over to the same stylist so she could fix her own job. After waiting a few precious minutes (I drove straight to a business interview after leaving), I told her what was wrong and that the fix needed to be quick. She aimed her scissors first at the back of my head, where there was still some semi-full hair below ear level, and I said NO, it’s the FRONT OF MY FACE that looks like ass. I didn’t say ass. I should have. There were a lot of things that I wanted to say but I was tired and stressed and residually polite. Damn my residual politeness.

My original haircut (the “cute” one) basically looked like one of these lovely ladies’ hairstyles, but with longer bangs. And flatter.

Scarlett is the only one who can even vaguely pull it off, but she’s Scarlett Fucking Johansson, you know? Anyway, this morning the stylist rounded out the thin, blunt, and poorly blended hair in the front of my face so that I feel less like Carol Brady, but I still don’t like it. It doesn’t feel like me, nor does it look like what I described to her. I’m usually pretty good with descriptions, for example: “a trim with some subtle layers and a blond chunk of hair in the front. I have fine hair that I want to look fuller without using a ton of product.” My hair was mostly the same length when I went in. I feel like this is a “Utah County Mom” hairstyle. You local people know what I’m talking about. Bleeeech.

I’m no fashion expert, but I’m pretty sure that seeing my neck through my hair does not constitute “fullness.”

I wasn’t wearing a helmet at all today! I swear!

Then again, Tina Fey pulled off something like it back when she was on Weekend Update. Except hers still looks better. Maybe I just need to wear my black plastic cat eye glasses with this cut and make sure that I’m always near a goofy retard. BUT WHAT IF I AM THE GOOFY RETARD.

I bought another package of “Dark Cherry” dye and was preparing to refresh the violet tones on my roots this week, but then an interview-type-thing popped up unexpectedly, and it seemed like a better idea to not have violet hair this week. I was in need of a haircut anyway.

I went to the Nice Salon a few minutes away from my house this morning, where I’ve had good experiences when I go (which ends up being once or twice a year). I’d go more often if it cost less. The stylist I liked doesn’t work there anymore, so I scheduled an appointment with one I didn’t know anything about because she was available on short notice.

Bad idea, as it turns out.

I’m not a morning person and didn’t have my usual amount of coffee this morning, otherwise I might have noticed the little things during my haircut. We discussed the auburn-ish base color I wanted, but she didn’t bring up what color or how bright the highlights would be. She didn’t check in as often with little questions and clarifications. She didn’t give me a mirror to look at the back of my hair after she finished.

My gut told me that that I didn’t like the haircut, but I didn’t listen. I also didn’t feign joy, and a good stylist would have noticed that I was less than thrilled and perhaps inquired about why. But I was tired and keeping an eye on the clock since I had to go to class—so I paid, left a decent tip as I normally do, and walked out the door.

But I didn’t like my haircut in the rear view mirror. And I didn’t like it under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the university bathroom. My friends and classmates—people whom, under normal circumstances, I would never ask what they thought of my new haircut—said things like “it’s cute!” in that certain tone of voice which, as we all know, means that it is not cute. But they would rather be polite than risk offending me even though I am essentially begging them to. Note to self: next time just wait to see husband’s reaction.

The interview is, of course, tomorrow. Washing my hair will help even out the stripey highlights, but it’s the unflattering cut that concerns me. As I twittered earlier, “I either got a Carol Brady-esque mullet haircut or I’m not in tune w/fashionable hairstyles of 2010. Either way it needs to be fixed!”

I played with it more this evening—flattening, curling, mousseing—but can’t get it to a point where I’m even moderately happy with it. I should have called the Nice Salon this afternoon, but I’ve never been in this situation before and I don’t know the proper way to deal with it. I don’t want the same stylist to fix my hair since she got it wrong the first time and there isn’t time (or length) for additional error. I also don’t want to be the bitchy customer who insists that the manager fix it personally—because the salon is relatively small and I know the stylist is working tomorrow. It’s embarrassing. But I’m going to have to call first thing tomorrow and ask if I can come in on my way to the interview.

And no, I’m not going to share a photo. If you want to see an unflattering image of me, you’re going to have to visit me in person.

P.S. Though I wrote a level-headed response the first time it happened, don’t be a dick and tell me that I’m not a geek because I’m writing about my hair. I’m feeling snarly.