Thank you for participating in my little poll, commenting in various forms, and sending pictures and whatnots. It’s been a fun way of both getting ideas on what to do with the do, and surviving the last winter month!
Most of you seem to prefer me in a fringe (over 50% in total when counting in the “other” suggestions including a fringe), so I guess that will be coming back. At this point I cannot say, however, if it will be the blunt fringe you’re used seeing me in, or if it will be something in the lines of lopsided fringes from days gone by.
Seeing as you had so many different suggestions (all from “boyish, i dare you” to “DON’T CUT IT!!!”), I have decided to remain indecisive. Before you start yelling that’s not a decision, hear me out… (eh.. read me out?)
A friend reminded me on Saturday of something. Or rather someone. I can’t believe I had not thought of that. I’ve been so busy scrolling through pictures, I had completely forgot Google isn’t the answer, Jussi is.
And whilst a handful of you are now smiling and nodding “of course”, the rest are scratching your heads trying to pronounce what I just wrote.
The Adventures of Being a Hair Model
Once upon a time I used to do some hair modelling. It was a decision I made after having endured a pregnant hairdresser crying her eyes out when not getting my hair exactly like the picture I had pointed at when sitting down. No matter how hard I tried convincing her I liked what she had done, she was still sobbing – especially when her boss came to tell her she had her next appointment waiting already (at that point she had been at it for 2½ hours already). I came to the conclusion there must be an easier way finding someone who can deal with the thick red, and so I boldly signed up with one of the bigger companies around.
I rather enjoyed it for a few years. It was quite nice never knowing how a day at the salon would end. Every time but one, the group of stylists were taught by the same man: Jussi. For some reason he always left me last during the initial walk-through, and when finally turning to the hairdresser in charge of my coiffure, it was always with a sly smile. He had a knack for coming up with almost impossible tasks for the stylist, I remember sitting there thinking to myself that the poor woman standing next to me has no idea what she’s up against. You see, not only is my hair way thicker than stylists sometimes realise; just because it looks straight when dry doesn’t mean it is that way when wet. And it does apparently not always respond to different cutting techniques the way stylists think.
The real fun, however, begins when you try dyeing it. My hair is what stylists call glass hair (translated from Swedish glashår and Finnish lasihiukset, I cannot find the equivalent English term for it), it’s so thick and glossy in itself that it simply won’t be bothered by artificial colour. No matter what dye you try forcing on it, the red will always shine through. Roughly said, black will make it about two shades darker, and not even no 12 on the bleaching scale will make it more than two shades lighter (believe me, it’s been tried). And two weeks later I always had to go back and show them how the permanent colour they had put there was almost completely gone. Washed down the drain, literally. (And for those of you protesting you’ve seen me in different shades of red: yes, you’re absolutely correct. I’ve from time to time been known to use colour enhancing treatments. But that’s not dye, it’s only a way of making my own colour pop out even more)
When the Modelling Days Are Over
After a few years of modelling every now and then I felt I didn’t have the time to spend endless days getting styled, and furthermore I wasn’t sure all the attempts to dye or highlight the old mop were good for it. Obviously whatever they put in it didn’t stick long enough to make any visible damage, but I still came to the conclusion it can’t be all good. So when I heard the top stylists of the brand I was modelling for had opened a salon, I started going there instead.
For another few years I kept getting new dos by the slyly smiling stylist, and I kept sending friends his way too. Be that as may, it was always frustrating to go there. I could see the fun in it when he was messing with hairdressers trying to tame this mane, but I wasn’t up for arguing myself with him. Every single time.
You see, this man belongs to the same group as the great torturer of Ealing. I’m equally scared of, as I’m angry with them. And yet I am some sort of sadomasochist returning to the scene of crime time after time again.
I lost track of times I went to Jussi, carefully prepared, with a picture in hand, or an explanation up my sleeve how I wanted my wisps of hair cut. Never once did I come out from there with anything even remotely resembling what I wanted. Only once (that very last time I went to him) was I not a hundred per cent happy with the outcome.
To give you a slight picture of what kind of man this is, I can tell you about the time I sat alone in the salon for 15 minutes before he even started cutting. I remember coming in, happily jumping up in the chair he pointed me to, and waiting. And waiting. And waiting. He was sitting in the adjoining room, reading a glossy magazine. After about five minutes, I turned around, just taking a peek his way, not even saying anything. “I’ll be there when I feel inspired” he called out, not even looking up from his magazine. Right.
When finally appearing next to me with scissors in his hand, I showed him a picture I had printed. He merely glanced at it, looked at me in the mirror and uttered a simple No. A bit thrown back by this complete lack of interest in what I wanted, I demanded to know why. He sighed and told me in one sentence “Your hair has a different structure and quality, your face is shaped differently, you wear glasses most of the time, you will not spend half an hour every morning trying to get this [pointing at a whirl] sorted out, any more questions or will you just let me do my job?”
Breaking up with your hairdresser
As mentioned, I got enough of this in the end. Usually his cuttings were so good I didn’t have to visit him so often, I kind of had time to forget how much I despised his manners. I guess I was a bit tired of my life in general, and when I realised I had been putting off getting a haircut only because I couldn’t stand him, I came to the conclusion I need to break up with the dude. So I went to his colleague instead. She was Dutch and her manners much softer. And she did what I asked her to do. Or then she suggested something similar. So when the owners split the salon in two, I stayed with her.
The friend who got me remembering last Saturday chose him, and gave me his contact details. I just made an appointment with him for next week. (shit! no turning back now..)
What I plan on telling him is that he’s allowed to take up to 15 cm away, and cut some sort of fringe, but other than that… I’m counting on him having some glossy magazines for me to read whilst waiting for the result.
Your guess is as good as mine how it will end. But I remember something a friend of mine said that very first time I was to model: “Whatever they do, just walk out of there with your head held high, pretending this is just the way you wanted to look all along”. Thank you, M – I still recite that in my head whenever I feel a bit misplaced.
P.s. To the Fringe Makes Me Cringe Group: a blunt fringe was one of the things he refused to do that last time I went to him. It ended with me cutting it myself a month later… Just to let you know your cause may not be lost yet 😉