Why I Hate Getting My Hair Cut

There are a lot of things I don't particularly care for that 99 percent of other girls in America absolutely love.  One of them is Beyonce, another is The Bachelorette, and another is pedicures.  But above all, I vehemently hate getting my hair cut.

I haven't had a very successful - or even notable - past with hair salons.  From elementary school through tenth grade I was a horse girl, which means I wore stirrup leggings and shirts with dancing horses, filled entire sketchbooks with horses in different poses, and most relevantly wore my hair so that it actually resembled a horse's: long and stringy.

Like this, but less cute and more socially awkward.

Later in high school I went to a few places in the mall before dances and to keep my bangs looking punk rock, but it was nothing serious.  I didn't develop a relationship with a hairdresser that most women seem to treasure.  But hey, I was eighteen and didn't want to carry any serious relationships with me into college.  Who needs a boyfriend hairdresser when you're just going to move away and meet new people?

For the next four years, my entire budget was spent on crop tops, boxed wine and bad magazines (you know, school supplies).  Getting my hair cut was not in my budget and was definitely not on my list of priorities.  It would happen spontaneously when I would ask my roommates to just go at it with a pair of scissors we kept in the knife drawer.  While my budget expenditures have not changed, as part of an effort to become a mature human I have started getting regular, professional trims.

The first one I got was okay.  I went to Great Clips, where I was referred to by my father.  My dad has thin hair like me, and also like me, does not give a flying fuck about what it looks like.  (My mother is one of the aforementioned ladies who has a strong working relationship with her hairdresser Vivian, makes appointments years in advance, and probably spends about three times the amount on her hair than I make in a week.  I ignored her referral.)  Anyway, Great Clips was a Great Experience; I liked it because I got to gossip and girl talk with the hairdresser, Michelle, without the pressure of having to maintain a friendship for years later, another thing I dislike that most girls love.  Even though it had been four years since I had a haircut and I made up a lie about how I had been living in Europe and didn't want to get my hair cut, Michelle didn't judge me because she knows that "the metric system can be confusing when you get your hair cut."  Yeah, whatever, and here's a $20 tip.

Unfortunately, I have moved away from Great Clips and this time I had to find a new "parlor," as it were.  I went into a few places, asked if they took walk-ins, and if I didn't like the look of the place I pretended to get an emergency call that forced me to leave.  Eventually I found myself at the Hair Cuttery, which is an okay place except none of the employees spoke English.  Definitely worse than having to use the metric system in Europe.

I already get my hair cut at the Cuttin' Corral.

Here are the main reasons I hate getting my hair cut:

1. How many nasty heads have been in that sink today?
2. I have a giant mole on the back of my neck, and when people comb over it, that's not a good time.  
3. They try to get you to buy so much stupid crap, like your weight in hair product or a $6 blow-dry.  Like maybe I would if it wasn't pouring rain outside and also if I couldn't dry my own damn hair for free.
4. You have to stare at yourself in the mirror for a minimum of 20 minutes.  While I do that same thing every hour on the hour, there are reasons this is not enjoyable at a salon, like that your hair is middle-parted and that you resemble Friar John with that cape that goes up to your chin.

By the time trauma was over, I looked like I had a mullet, I had bangs I didn't remember asking for, and just wanted to get out of there.  While I will probably wear a ponytail for the next six weeks, at least I'm not him:

What Your American Girl Doll Says About You

Looking back on the days of our innocent youth, I'm sure we all have fond memories of childhood best friends.  Maybe you spent hours swimming in between each other's legs at the pool, which is weird.  Maybe you two built forts in the backyard and perfected your explosion noises as you guided model planes through the air, which means you were a boy.

But whoever your best friend was, mine was better.  She always listened, never bogged me down with her own trivial, less important problems, and let me pick out all her clothes.  She was my American Girl doll, and we did everything together.  Our friendship was a special one.  I always let her win the staring contests, she always let me win the laughing contests.  I played with her until age 12.  It's whatever.

Now, let's not pretend we all haven't been consumerist assholes since age 4.  Which American Girl doll you had told more about you and your values than probably even what Spice Girl or Disney Princess you were.  No you can't play with me at recess, because you have Kit. 

Anyway, let's begin.

Felicity

Felicity was the OG of American Girl dolls.  Today, they don't even sell her which is just a backstabbing move.  She gave them everything, and now they just hand it to all these stupid little Girls of Year to shit all over the brand that means so much to us: the 90s girls.  Out with the old, in with the new, they said!  Let's name the new dolls stupid things like Saige and McKenna, they said!  I digress...

GET OUT OF HERE!

Felicity was a 17th century lass who played games that were named after whatever object was involved: hoop and stick, ball and cup, keg and stand.  It was a simpler time.  Her clothes were gorgeous, she had a horse, and she was probably a little pretentious because she was relatively rich.  If you had Felicity, you were either a fiery red head, your lived in Williamsburg, or you were a horse girl.  

Josefina

Here's the run-down on Josefina.  She lives in New Mexico, her mom died and her dad has to take care of her and her crap ton of siblings, she's scared of anything and is mostly boring.  From what I recall she is not very popular and her clothes suck.  I don't know who had her except for Hispanic girls.  Sorry if this is offensive.

Kirsten

Like Felicity, Kirsten was one of the first American Girls.  Like Josefina, she lives in a foreign land.  Her and her Swedish family are roughing it on the Minnesota frontier and she has to do a lot of stupid things like quilting and milking animals.  She wears her hair like Princess Lea and accessories were like a spoon and a handkerchief.  Cool Kirsten.  For some reason she gave me the heebie-jeebies, but you probably had her if you were blonde and blue-eyed.

Addy

She grew up as a slave and is pissed off about it, obviously.  Hands down, Addy was the most badass.  She's always talking about how unfair slavery is and questioning society, so needless to say she was smarter than probably half of America then, and probably half of America now.  I knew a few random white girls who had Addy, but it was kind of like "bitch, please."

Samantha

Samantha was a rich bitch.  She had bangs and voluminous brown hair, was an orphan, and wore WAY too much plaid for one little girl.  She had bows for every outfit and pearls.  WHAT EIGHT-YEAR OLD WEARS PEARLS??  If you had Samantha you were probably pretty, snobby, and now you shop at places like Banana Republic and Colors of Benetton.  

Molly

Molly grew up smack-dab in the middle of World War II.  She had glasses, and like Samantha had brown hair and bangs, but in every way Samantha was pretty, she was the opposite: nerdy, awkward, and strapped for cash.  I don't actually know about the last part but let's just say she didn't come with a velvet purse like Samantha did.  If you had Molly you were the "funny girl," a little bit quirky, and your name was probably Molly.  

Kit

I hesitate to even include Kit, because she showed up when everything started going south (I was getting to the age where it's not okay to wear a matching outfit with your doll in public).  Her last name is Kittredge, which would make her name Kit Kittredge, which is not a name.  She grew up in the Great Depression and reallllly broke the mold because she had short hair and clothes that didn't cover up from head to toe, like all the other dolls.  If you had Kit, you were in the grade below me, and you're probably now a slut.  Just saying.  

Hussy.

Twin Dolls

Although twin dolls don't have their own books, accessories, and weirdly in-depth story lines, I have to give them a shout out because that's what I had.  No, Emily didn't have her own book but you better believe I wrote one about her.  She looked JUST like me: dirty dishwater blonde hair, poop brown eyes, and as my mom puts it, "skin the color of honey."  I was obsessed with Felicity so I dressed her colonial style clothing that my mom bought at JoAnn Fabrics.  I never understood why I had to have the off-brand clothes, until I recently went into an American Girl store and discovered that the dresses are $40.  I wouldn't buy a dress for MYSELF for that much.

Whatever American Girl doll you had, I am certain she was dear to you.  Mine still sits out in display in my room, because I just didn't have the heart to let her sit in the attic with the less awesome toys and the mouse community that has taken up residence.  While I'm waiting for the day Beanie Babies finally reach the value I was told they would so I can sell them for a small fortune, there is no way I would EVER sell Emily.  Bad bitches for life.

Office Lifestyle

Your own computer.  Your own phone extension.  And three beige, fabriced walls to call your own.  Some would say working in a cubicle is the American dream.  I mean seriously, who wants a job with "flexible hours," where they're not "tied to a desk all day," "hunched over a computer screen"?  NOT ME.  I'll sit on my ass all day and quickly minimize Facebook every time I hear someone coming around my cubicle wall, thank you very much.

Well, I've only had my own cubicle for a few short days at this point, but it's taught me a few things.  It's pretty similar to college in that you privately judge and hate everyone around you, only this time you're not in a classroom and you're stuck with them from 9-5, not 50 minutes.

It may sound like I hate my new job, but I actually really like it!  It's kind of a cross between the fun antics and dynamics of the casts of The Office and Workaholics.  It's a less glamorous version of Mad Men (but just the parts they don't actually show....yeah...).  So, combined with my real-world experiences and observations from TV and grown-up friends, let me tell you about a few staple personalities of office life.

The Jokester
For me, his name is Steve.  Incidentally, he is my only friend so far.  The jokester, by real-world standards, is not even slightly funny, but under the glare of 30 flourescent lights he's a lolocaust, probably with a bald head but mysteriously existent ponytail.  I don't know about other offices but I'm pretty sure Steve doesn't have a desk because he seems to spend all day wandering around and making jokes as he passes by your cubicle.

The Loudmouth
Much like a nine-hour trans-Atlanic flight, in an office there is no privacy.  And The Loudmouth DOES. NOT. CARE!!!  For me, her name is Lois.  Actually it is Janet but seeing as I hear more of her than I see, I think she sounds like a Lois so that is what I'm calling her.  Also like Steve, she doesn't seem to work but instead spends all day on the phone with her friends and family.  I am particularly excited for her daughter's recovery from her wisdom teeth removal, because I'm interested to see what topic Lois/Teresa will talk about for 8 hours straight next.  (Note: she is my second favorite because she yells at people when they misuse the printer and also says "damn" and "shit" sometimes.  She doubles as the office badass.)

The Crazy One
Let's just say I know who is most likely to snap.  Paul.  It's Paul.  He is definitely crazy, depressed, creepy, and mutters to himself.  Unfortunately/fortunately, the padding on my cubicle wall is just thick enough so that I can't make out what he is saying.  He's probably harmless, but I'm going to offer him half of my Twix just in case.

The Gossip Queen
She is in everybody's business all the time, and you bet your new box of ballpoints she is judg-ing-you.  No office romance is safe.  Be careful what you talk about by the printer because her desk is located right next to it and she knows all about your softball team drama and the Mexican dinner your boyfriend took you out to last night.

The One Who Brings Spaghettios For Lunch
YOU'RE STINKING UP THE WHOLE BREAK ROOM, CHEF BOYARDEE. 

Nina
You know, Nina of "Nina speaking, JUST a moment!"  She's the "nice girl" of the office and you just freaking HAAAATE HER.  She says things like "Happy Monday," "Workin' hard or hardly workin'??!" and "Tag, you're it!" when leaving a voicemail for someone she's been playing phone tag with.  Also, I'm pretty sure the nice thing is a facade because there is just no way someone who talks in that high-pitched of a voice isn't clinically insane.

The Intern
You know, the young, hot one that wears pants that are probably a liiiiittle too tight to be considered professional. 

The office, in a nutshell, is its own fantastic microculture.  It's a magical place where people put up reminders in Comic Sans to FLUSH THE TOILET!!!!!, where binder clips never run out, where Internet Explorer is the default browser, and where I get 30 emails a day to an account I NEVER EVEN CREATED. 

Yes...I think I'll like it here.