“I’d like a long bob, please. Like, barely brushing my collarbones, with some piecey layers thrown in for texture. Here are two pictures to use as a guide:”
WHAT SHE HEARD
“Please, oh please, make me look like a 1950’s housewife named Shirley Sue who is greeting her two sons, Harry and Fred, with a fresh-baked plate of Snickerdoodles as they come home from school.”
WHAT I SAID
“I’d like my overall look to be very sleek and polished.”
WHAT SHE HEARD
“My hair to date hasn’t really given me ample opportunity to try out styles that make me look like: (a) I'm 12, (b) I'm posing for an American Apparel ad, and (c) I'm putting to good use my porn name, Fluffy van Carlton. What can you do for me that will enable me to incorporate all of those things simultaneously?"
WHAT I DIDN’T SAY, BUT ASSUMED WAS UNDERSTOOD
“I enjoy having my hair evenly cut on both sides. It's just one of my little quirks.”
WHAT SHE ASSUMED
“Even shmeven, beeyotch!”
Just to drive home my point...
See how I can make jokes? I'll be fine. FIIIIINE. The truth is, I don't think she cut it short enough, so at least there's room for someone competent to repair the damage. Whoorl has reassured me that this is fixable, and I'm scheduling an appointment with my regular hairdresser post-haste. (WHAT WAS I THINKING GOING TO SOMEONE NEW? AND WHO DIDN'T REALLY HAVE A FULL GRASP OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, AT THAT?) In the meantime, I will be wearing a Blair Waldorf-style beret to disguise the above disaster, and praying that my hairstylist makes house calls.
Wish me luck.