This weekend I had the first major hair cut since this one in 2007. It’s been very easy to erase salon visits from my list of expenses, especially when I’d rather use that money on my son or to buy camera equipment. But in my younger days, I would leave one of my very favorite salons having spent over a hundred bucks on highlights and layered cuts. I also had acrylic french tipped nails that made me feel so fly girl even though they were expensive and after each fill, I felt like my sausage fingertips had been sucked through individual bamboo shoots.
This recent trip only cost me the tip since the stylist, TT, was offering free hair cuts at the very same salon where my wallet hemorrhaged long ago. It was easy to talk to her especially when I have this social deficiency that causes my brain to reformat itself so I can’t talk about anything other than weird crap I see on the internet, like this documentary on women who fall passionately in love with buildings and bridges, marry them and talk to each other about their sexy times (with bridges! and fences! and crossbows!). See, that’s what goes through my brain and I lack the filter that says, “Mona, maybe this is not appropriate conversation gruffle for someone you just met. Or anyone you will ever meet.”
I like my hair at this length, the way it flips upward like Marlo Thomas in That Girl, or at least what I’ve seen on Nick and Nite because that show was before my time. That’s not an insult, that’s a compliment because you know what shows are of my time? Rock of Love Bus. I had this weird dream that I was on The Bachelor but instead of competing against Molly and Melissa, I had to battle for affection against the girls of Rock of Love Bus. These women were so poignant, screaming out drunken lines like, “What the french!?” and “People who eat basil are lame!” Only, we were in this huge mansion and I had no interest in The Bachelor himself. I wanted to know where he got the granite in the kitchen and what the exact square footage of the main floor was, not if I could stay and “rock his world.”
I don’t think I’d do well on those types of shows. I don’t look good in a slinky dress. You’d be more attracted to a sack of potatoes with a belt around the middle. Besides, our entire one-on-one date would feature a laptop and my screaming, “GUESS WHAT I JUST SAW ON YOUTUBE!”