The Price of Beauty

So, I saw Olga on Monday. Remember her? This time, she decided that winter was the perfect occasion for going truly short - she pressed the comb to the hair just above my shoulders and announced her intentions.

Olga: Here. And we add copper.
Me: I don't know.
Olga: Yes. Will be perfect.
Me: Copper sounds fine, but n.o.c. hates short hair, remember?
Olga: So, you have fabulous hair during day, at night you wear long wig. Yes.
Me: But...

But it was too late. Olga had decided, and she'd apparently decided on something much shorter than she originally suggested:

I love it. It's sleek and shiny and feels like an honest-to-god "style." I'm like a grownup or whatever. I check myself out in windows. Students fawn over me. I get compliments all the time.

Not, however, from n.o.c. While it wasn't as short as he'd feared, he told me last night that the cut was fine, but "it just makes you look average."

This was basically the most terrible thing anyone's ever said to me, so I killed him. Snorri loves the hair, and we're very happy together. Just the two of us, coiffed and adorable.

Spasibo

Well, I don't have a mullet. What I do have is a dysfunctional relationship with my new stylist, Olga. Since Olga is Russian, she gets to say things like, "Look at zeeis." (She waves a handful of my hair.) "All of zeeis." (She drops it in disgust.) "Dead. Limp. Heedious. Vee must have it gone." So, she highlighted, lowlighted, and hacked off six inches. She also teased and hairsprayed. ("Geently teez at least tree sections. Zeen you spray. Zeeis geevs illusion that hair is beegger. You must do zeeis.") I now own a can of hairspray that's at least two feet tall and have appointments scheduled with Olga through 2012.

In other news, I'm a tad delicate this morning. 29-year-olds do not get hangovers.