i'm experiencing a little pre-birthday funkage. went to the hairdresser to get my hair cut. Nina cuts my hair and does a good job except she pauses a lot when she gets to talking, or she cuts while she's talking and starts looking into the mirror at my face, and not down at my head where the hair is. "you know what I mean, Erika?" she asks, snip, snip, snip. "i'm mean he's a fucking asshole," she says. she's talking about Bush and still not looking at my head, a host of sharp instruments in her hands that could lead to certain baldage click-clacking away as if on autopilot. "uh huh, uh-huh" i agree looking into the mirror trying to redirect her attention back to the matter at head. "and that bastard Rumsfeld," she continues. she stands away from me and my head then with her hand on her hip, "you know what I mean Erika?" i've never been on a first-name basis with any person cutting my hair because --i don't know -- i guess i just knew it would lead to something like this. and i feel bad now because i'm thinking about ditching her and her politics and going down the street to Le Bam Beauty Express next to the gas station. maybe she picked up on the dumpage vibes; anyhow, she starts paying more attention to my head. but slowly she starts up again. "i don't know," she sighs and fluffs my bangs, what's left of them anyhow. "i get so depressed, you know what i mean Erika?" i want to be there for my hairstylist, understanding of her mood swings, i really do, but i only have an hour for lunch and about a 1/8 of an inch left of hair. the time has come for less confession, more focus. that's what i'm thinking. then she asks apropos i don't know what "how old are you Erika?" forty-two pops out of my mouth. she points out that she is forty-two also, born september 1964. i suggest she re-do her math, because i am 42 and i was born in 1963. (simple mistake -- she is after all a beautician.) now i know that if i were in the midst of a little Rumsfeld water boarding i would have come up with my correct age, but I swear as i sat there and let her mold my hair with a fruity pomade into peaks and crests which i would flatten immediately upon exiting her shop and turning the corner, i believed myself to be 42 on the verge of 43 not 44 on the verge of 45 which is of course on the verge of 50. thanks for the trim, Nina.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
i'm experiencing a little pre-birthday funkage. went to the hairdresser to get my hair cut. Nina cuts my hair and does a good job except she pauses a lot when she gets to talking, or she cuts while she's talking and starts looking into the mirror at my face, and not down at my head where the hair is. "you know what I mean, Erika?" she asks, snip, snip, snip. "i'm mean he's a fucking asshole," she says. she's talking about Bush and still not looking at my head, a host of sharp instruments in her hands that could lead to certain baldage click-clacking away as if on autopilot. "uh huh, uh-huh" i agree looking into the mirror trying to redirect her attention back to the matter at head. "and that bastard Rumsfeld," she continues. she stands away from me and my head then with her hand on her hip, "you know what I mean Erika?" i've never been on a first-name basis with any person cutting my hair because --i don't know -- i guess i just knew it would lead to something like this. and i feel bad now because i'm thinking about ditching her and her politics and going down the street to Le Bam Beauty Express next to the gas station. maybe she picked up on the dumpage vibes; anyhow, she starts paying more attention to my head. but slowly she starts up again. "i don't know," she sighs and fluffs my bangs, what's left of them anyhow. "i get so depressed, you know what i mean Erika?" i want to be there for my hairstylist, understanding of her mood swings, i really do, but i only have an hour for lunch and about a 1/8 of an inch left of hair. the time has come for less confession, more focus. that's what i'm thinking. then she asks apropos i don't know what "how old are you Erika?" forty-two pops out of my mouth. she points out that she is forty-two also, born september 1964. i suggest she re-do her math, because i am 42 and i was born in 1963. (simple mistake -- she is after all a beautician.) now i know that if i were in the midst of a little Rumsfeld water boarding i would have come up with my correct age, but I swear as i sat there and let her mold my hair with a fruity pomade into peaks and crests which i would flatten immediately upon exiting her shop and turning the corner, i believed myself to be 42 on the verge of 43 not 44 on the verge of 45 which is of course on the verge of 50. thanks for the trim, Nina.
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16 comments:
so frickin' hot!
43 is the new 33!
i'm almost 40. born in 67. 40 on the verge of 30.
my grandma is still alive. she was born in 1918. 1918!
are we middle aged?
aren't we all bike racers?
then, by definition, we won't ever grow up....
Ahhh, yes. All too familiar.
Then there was the time my stylist was busy chatting and apparently forgot we had agreed she would take only 1/2 inch off. I wrote a little haiku that day:
Half-inch becomes inch
Stylist suffers amnesia
'tween shampoo and shears
it really hurts when they nip your ears with the scissors...she gives you a good haircut, don't ditch her even though she did call your niece a boy...
i was born in 64 and you got me all confused as to my age (briefly)
anyway,
ditch her
hairdressers should relax you
HaHa...I'm 46 and haven't had a "real" haircut in 30 years....I'm holding out for another 30.
i'm such a nitwit -- I am 42 going on 43, not 43 turning 44...
gotta have a talk with Nina
You could be 42 and be born in 1963 as long as your bday is sometime in the next 6 weeks.
I had to use my ten key to figure that out
yes, birthday and cruise within next 5 weeks...
I knew you were lying about your age. 1965 here. So you'll all turn 50 before me. And 60. And 70. Except VB who's still a kid. And Lauren. Oh yeah, I forgot I started lying about my age. 1970 so that makes me only 36.
And I had my ear nipped by my girl, Carly, once. You know what I mean, Erika?
vg--when i tried it with my 10-key, you definitely turn 60 before anyone else.
I feel bad.
Nina's really quite good and has never clipped my ears...
just talked them off.
i spy all the witty women
my husband cuts my hair. he's very gentle.
is that weird?
MAN, I can relate. My last hairdresser would go on about her family as I'd watch precious lengths drop to the floor. My cuts got worse and worse -- every visit left me so tense I would burst out the door afterward just to breathe. Bleck.
Just cut my hair! I'll go somewhere else for my social hour!
Needless to say, I found someone else.
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