Little Chief

I had to stand duty last Friday so my boss, who was going to be playing in a golf tournament that day anyway, told me not to bother coming to work at all. Because it was a holiday weekend I was going to have start duty at 12:00 so I decided to make a much-needed hair appointment for 9:45. The appointment was "much-needed" because the last haircut I had, just 4 weeks before, was terrible. Not terrible like I need to wear a hat everyday but terrible because it required much more time than I prefer to spend on my hair -- we're talking flat-iron and everything just to keep me from looking like clown-head. Anyway, I make the appointment for the Detour Salon down in Encinitas which I've had good luck with before. I tell Melissa (yes, I'm naming names) that I wasn't happy with the last cut because whatever the last hair stylist did caused a lot of poofing on the bottom and flatness on the top -- not a good look for me (not sure that's a good look for anyone, now that I think about it...). Anyway, I know she asked me about the overall length and I told her that I just needed a trim and I was pretty happy with the length where it was, I just wanted to solve the poofing/flatness problem. Well... 45 minutes and $60 later...

[For those of you who haven't seen me in a while, that's about 3 inches off the overall length!]

And here's my theory on why I ended up with this cut rather than the cut I asked for... I broke the cardinal rule of letting the stylist know that I was a Marine. For some reason "I'm a Marine" translates to "I'd like a buzz cut" in stylist-speak, despite the fact that (1) I'm a woman, and (2) I was not getting my hair cut at "Stud Cuts" in downtown Oceanside.

It's not that I dislike the cut, really [you don't think she was just buttering me up when she said, "You really have the neck to pull this cut off," do you?], but it does bring back one particular bad childhood memory: for most of elementary school I sported an extremely short haircut (and yes, at one point I even rocked out the rat-tail... give me a break, it was the 80's after all). Anyway, one evening I was out to dinner with my family and the waiter says, "And what can I get for you, Little Chief?" Little Chief. And no, I was not wearing any sort of Native American Head Dress at the time. No buts about it -- he thought I was a little boy. This was the day I began growing my hair out, and for some reason, even 20 years later, whenever I get a ridiculously short haircut I find myself remembering this dinner, that comment, and questioning my femininity. Could also have something to do with the fact that with this haircut I become my brother (no offense, Jer).

In other summer haircut news, you may have already heard that Macy and Bandit are also sporting the Little Chief:

Again, not the cut we were going for, but after 30 minutes of frustration in trying to accomplish the "trim, don't shave" I requested for Macy, the groomer from the Aussie Pet Mobile ended up shaving her anyway because she said it was just too much undercoat to do any other way. Four hours later we had two nearly shaven dogs who are still extremely soft and look surprisingly like they did back when they were puppies.

The good news for us all is, as they say, "It'll grow back."