Got a new haircut.

Getting a haircut and color might be in the top ten list of things that give me anxiety. It's somewhere in the middle of taking my shoes off to go through security at the airport and having to touch a dirty napkin. It's not like I'm super hard to please, either. I'm about as low maintenance as it gets when it comes to my hair. I typically shower at night, sleep on it wet, and then maybe just maybe, if I'm feeling extra fancy the next day I'll blow dry (after sleeping on it for eight hours.)

So why does getting my hair done by a professional have to be so stressful? And by "professional" I mean someone with 3+ tattoos, one of which must be a song lyric, at least three visible colors in their own hair, an ensemble consisting of a loose fitting "dress" adorned with chunky jewelry along side leggings and sassy animal print pumps from DSW, and six piercings (guess where the three non visible ones are... we won't tell if you can't tell.) Oh, and perhaps a hair school certificate. That my friends, is a hair "professional." I'm kidding. It's a serious profession, I know. God only knows where this world would be without hair stylists. Probably at home, in our bathrooms, cutting our own hair as the inventor of scissors intended it. Saving ourselves $200 and a lot of time.

But for real, why must the entire process of coloring and cutting take so damn long? Tucking my hair into 1,000 pieces of foil, awkwardly crossing and uncrossing my legs in the chair while attempting to make small talk with the stylist who is trying to "relate" to me. She offers me a drink, I get nervous because I'm already feeling broke and don't know if the soda is $3 or complimentary. Then she laughs and says "or we have wine if you want to start early." But I do want to start early. And I don't ever think twice about having to pay for alcohol, but since she laughed while suggesting it now I just feel weird. Drinking in the afternoon doesn't have to be a joke, why did she have to go and ruin it? I think it would have really helped take the edge off as I sit in nervous anticipation as she runs her fingers through my hair and snootily asks,

"So... who did your hair last?"
I did. I lie and say,

"My old stylist, Lori Elle."

"Hmmm." Hair lady says as she looks it over disapprovingly.

It wouldn't have mattered if my old stylist was Paul Mitchell. Every hair cutter seems to think they are better than the previous and looks at my hair like it was handled by a blind five year old. It's quite hurtful. And then they start to instruct me on what needs to be done. Low lights and high lights and semi full this and demi half that. It's all very confusing. I just say the same thing every time.

"Keep it blonde and keep it long. But take away the fuzzy hay stack look."

And then they have at it. Whenever they start cutting away at my dead ends they tell me the same shit every time,

"you know if you got trims more often your hair would grow a lot faster."

No, no it wouldn't. That is a bold faced lie. If I trimmed the branches on the tree in my front yard would that also make the grass grow faster? Because it seems like pretty much the same premise here. How on earth would cutting the ends of my hair more frequently effect the roots that are yet to burst through my scalp? I'm failing to see the connection. But what do I know? I didn't spend 18 months at beauty school.

Two and a half hours later, my legs are asleep, my scalp is burning, and my layers are far too short. And I never got that glass of wine I "jokingly" asked for. But my color is looking saucy, if I do say so myself. It's like Adrienne Maloof meets Kendra meets Helga from Hey Arnold. I'm ready for a night out on the town... Or perhaps on the couch. It's a little nippy out, I bought stuff to make chili, and my new sweats from Target are looking pretty nice.

Thanks Huskers for giving me a Saturday off. I was starting to forget what it's like to be sober in the afternoon.