If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you know that I’ve done a lot of embarrassing things in my life. I’ve blogged about many of those embarrassing things over the years (see here and here and here and here. Oh, and also here and here for two especially embarrassing stories.) But the story I’m about to share? This story takes the cake. Times three thousand…
So I’m a twenty-somethingish somewhat clueless mother of three, and thanks to random boredom-induced internet searching (this was before facebook, ya’ll,) I discovered this this disturbing website. Go on, take a gander. I’ll wait.
Ohhhh yes, I did that. I decided to sell my hair. It was super-long and getting irritating and I thought “wow, some of these ladies are selling their hair for thousands of dollars and my hair is waaaay prettier than theirs! I’m gonna be rich!” Of course, reality never works out the way it does on the really freaky websites.
So I posted pictures and a description of my “long, luxurious hair” and a few days later, I actually got a bid! It wasn’t for the thousands I was hoping for, but it was hair I was planning to get rid of anyway, so what the heck! So we made the arrangements to get it chopped off and shipped out.
But then, then I made a terrible, terrible mistake.
In all my I-just-got-offered-money-for-my-long-luxurious-haired vanity, I decided that I wanted a really good haircut, for the first time in my life. A super amazingly good haircut, at the most expensive place in town. I was going to the spa! I was going to get the “haircut and style” with the master stylist herself! I was going to get pampered and look aaaahmazing!
Now, I don’t know if you know this or not (and I’m going to take a wild guess that you don’t) but when you sell your hair, you have to do it according to the specifications of the person who buys it. In my particular case, I was to cut it a certain length, in a certain way, and take “before,” “during” and “after” pictures of it being cut, so my buyer knew it was fresh hair. Or something, I really don’t know. In any case, I decided to go to this really expensive, fancy shmansy spa and have the master stylist take pictures of herself cutting my hair. And somehow, it never occurred to me that this was a very, very, bad idea.
So I walk into this very fancy salon, filled with very fancy people, the likes of which I’ve probably never seen in my life, because those people just don’t hang out at the Taco Bell and buy their clothes at the Goodwill. And I remind the receptionist about my very specific hair-care requirements, and she sweetly asks “Oh, are you donating your hair?” And why… Oh WHY couldn’t I have just said YES, but no, I had to be all truthful and stuff, and respond cheerfully: “No, I’m selling it!”
You could have heard a pin drop.
It was all downhill from there.
My “master stylist” enlisted the help of another stylist in taking the pictures with my camera (I’d oh-so-conveniently brought an old digital made in roughly 1960) as disdain rolled off of them in waves. Then, as my “master stylist” was cutting my hair, I tried to make interesting conversation:
“Wow… you don’t even have to wet it before you cut it? And you don’t have to section it out? Every time I’ve ever had my hair cut” (you know, at the CostCutters in the Walmart Supercenter) “they’ve always had to wet it and section it out!”
I am not making this up, people. I really, truly, honestly did say that. And I really, truly, honestly, could practically feel her desire to rip every hair out of my ridiculous twenty-somethingish head.
They couldn’t get me out of there fast enough.
I really did have the most beautiful hair after that. For the first time in my life, every lock fell smoothly into place and made me feel like a million bucks. But not once since then… not ever… have I been able to bring myself to go back to that fancy salon for another haircut with my master stylist.
And I’ve never, ever, tried to sell my hair again.