I awoke so unhappy this morning, so desolate, I knew that it was my duty to share it with you, my faithful readers.
Your faithful correspondent has survived divorce, death, and severely horrendous fashion.
However, now I cannot show my face in public for the foreseeable future. The unthinkable has happened.
I have a bad haircut.
A short history: my hair stylist, the ONLY man who could make my abundant locks look their best, disappeared! For years he had been my hair stylist on good hair days and bad. No challenge was too much for him, even when I foolishly tried to dye my hair brunette by myself. (I confess, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but there were far too many Cosmopolitans involved.)
Then, he left the salon he co-founded and took a chair at another salon. Of course I followed, but then, a few short weeks later, he was gone. Wiped from the face of the earth! No response to phone calls, emails, text messages…what WAS I to do? Turbans and scarves could only cover the unruliness on my head for so long.
My first mistake: I took the recommendation of a friend who has entirely different hair than mine. Hers is thin, fine, straight as opposed to my thick, abundant waves of liquid gold.
My second mistake: at the risk of being politically incorrect, I advise you to find a hair stylist whose English is impeccable. I tried to make my wishes known, but it was impossible.
My third mistake: I stayed in the chair. And watched in horror as she hacked away at my crowning glory in large chunks. Then she blow-dryed it so that it bore an unnerving resemblance to my mother’s hair circa 1969.
Words cannot attempt to describe the result. Suffice to say that a friend tactfully commented how brave I was to have a haircut that was so “anti-fashion.” As soon as I arrived home, I rushed past my horrified staff and plunged my head under the shower.
It did not improve the results. Even Bucky, my darling miniature pinscher, barked at me!
I am in despair, dahlings! When one is known for one’s impeccable grooming, a bad haircut is the equivalent of leaving the house not having showered for a week and wearing a Forever 21 dress.
Learn from my mistakes, mon cher amis. If nothing else, I can pass along this devastating experience in the name of knowledge.
In the meantime, I doubt I shall be leaving the apartment, unless I am wearing a hat and dark glasses.
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog