BiG BaNG THeoRY

I am a serial hair salon client.

In the past year I have bounced from chair to chair--shamelessly donned a variety of smocks and robes--and allowed several strangers to shampoo me. Along the way, there have been a couple of men that Truly Satisfied me (sometimes multiple times)... they ran their fingers through my hair and warmed me up to the cut; manhandling my roots and split ends, putting me in the mood for some highlights and a trim.

But here's the thing: I just can't stand it when they talk.

I have been with the most masterful colorists and cutters who have been sheer genius-but I have left them when they spoiled the whole thing by "making conversation." Like Alan, who felt compelled to punctuate each tin foil wrap with an anecdote about: quitting heroin, quitting smoking, quitting drinking, or quitting compulsive sex with strangers. Or Sven, who used the hour it took to make my roots match my ends to share every detail of his childhood in Bulgaria.

I so very rarely take any time for myself (it's either work work work or kids kids kids) so when I do--is it too much to ask to be left alone and in peace with my friends Angie and Brad?

So I tip hugely, and then dump them: running from salon to salon looking for the silent hairdresser who will just do my hair and leave me to find out how my friend Britney has been doing since her dad moved in. I'm just looking for a cut, not a relationship.

I live in Chelsea and have pretty much burned every salon within a fifteen block radius. So a few weeks ago I went to the one that is Always Empty. Instead of tumbleweeds, big hairballs blew across the desolate tiles. The few posters in the window showed Dorothy Hammill wedge cuts. There, I allowed Marge Simpson to highlight and cut my hair while she shared Every Single Detail of Her Holiday with me despite the fact that i was trying to seriously study the Nine Things You Should Never Say In Bed according to Cosmopolitan.

I always leave before the blow dry. Sneak them the money in an envelope, and pull on a wool cap before disappearing into the city.

When I returned home and my hair dried, I discovered it was orange. Morris the Cat Orange. Sexyhusbandomine described it as: Not THAT bad, although he agreed that if there were a way to find two and half hours in the weeks ahead that I should think about some corrective work. I have two and a half hours free February 3rd.

Marge grew tired round about the time she got to the front of my head, and consequently decided not to touch my bangs. However, I am a fan of seeing. When I realized they were getting tangled in my lower eyelashes I decided to take matters in my own hands. After all; how hard can cutting bangs really be?

Two tips if you decide to try this at home:
1) Don't use scotch tape as a guide.
2) Remember that if you cut them wet, they will shrink when dry.

Number two explains how it all went terribly wrong for me. I was no better at predicting what the end length would be with dry bangs, than I was at guessing how Sexyhusbandomine would fare the first time he jumped into ice water: both events being equally shocking.

So here I am with my orange and blonde bangs about an inch and a half above my unruly eyebrows. For some reason, they come to a kind of Count Chocula point midway--but I dare not try to make them straighter.

Hair today, goon tomorrow indeed.