I t’s happened: I look like a country western singer. It’s time for a haircut. The only person—it so appears—capable of giving a proper "long layers cut" in this town is an arrogant chamber pot of a French bastard named Norbert. I’ve tried the stylists written up in magazines for "Best Curly Hair," and, sorry, but they’ve all sucked it. Sure, they know how to handle curly hair, to keep it wet while styling, handle it as little as possible, saturate with gel—hell, they even say that they’re "carving your curls." And it all sounds so promising, swearing I’ll love the products, adore the cut, and with such expectations, it’s always a big fat appointment with dis. Last I was in his "Pffft, Do You Need a Kleenex?" French Bastard’s chair, I left the Davenport Village salon looking like a very unhappy meal. Norbert agreed long hair was best on me, then hacked it off anyway, leaving me with hair cut far too short to wear curly. But, I will allow that it was, in fact, a masterful cut, if only he’d left it longer. The Frenchman left me looking like an English Springer Spaniel.
I don’t get my hair cut often. I don’t need to bond with my stylist. We needn’t chit chat. No therapy needed, aside from a good deep conditioning and perhaps an applied gloss or some Kerastase products. I just need someone here in Austin who sees hair as their calling in life. Is that too much to ask? It’s why I’m through messing around. The appointment has been made. Next Tuesday, I’ve locked in an appointment at Jose Luis Salon. It’s going to be an all out girl day.
Speaking of girl day, the last time I had a pedicure was in September. This is beyond sadacious, and soon I might be charged with assault with a deadly weapon: the claw. How’s a girl supposed to feel wicked without her namesake polish in "toe." (Yeah, that was pretty bad). The good news, however, aside from my beauty-fail, is that I’ve been happier lately. My liver hasn’t, but I have.