When Hair Stylists Play God

For my cabaret debut on my birthday, I knew the only way to keep my nerves calm in the hours preceding was to be sitting in my hair stylist’s chair. A new batch of highlights and a blowout were in order! There’s nothing riskier than a curling iron/hairspray situation at home before an occasion. This is largely why I wear wigs.

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What I’ve never considered is a weave. “So, can I take these out and reuse them after tonight?” I asked of the long platinum blond strips of hair that were being affixed to my freshly-done head. “Oh, honey, these are permanent.” As though Bruce, acting on behalf of God (as hair stylists tend to do), decided that this was the time in my life for me to experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of a woman with hair extensions.

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As a touch-addicted spa girl who runs her fingers through her hair and massages her scalp constantly, having what are essentially permanent stickers fluttering near my scalp has been very troubling. I’ve had to develop new head-touching methodology, and it’s made me think about the millions of weaved chicks out there who feel this is their best option – so much power to ya. Beauty is sacrifice… and karma’s a bitch. When washing my hair it’s like my fingertips are running into little red flags along the way, warning me to never to trust a hair stylist again! It’s been a couple weeks now, and it’s slightly itchy. But the worst part is… UGH. I love it.

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I love the added fullness of my hair. I love how the styling stays overnight. The oomph of my ponytail! The jolts of platinum that haven’t fried my hair in the process! There are only like ten of them but gosh, it looks good… Jessica Simpson, Lindsay Lohan, Bruce, YOU WIN.

As the buddha of beauty might say, this is the time to go through my weave stage, a rite of passage. An experience. Will I get my faux head of hair readjusted in a few weeks when they grow in? No! Well, probably one more time. Maybe I’ll get a few, some bolder colors, a little more thickness perhaps…

My ladies with a weave, I ask: CAN ONE EVER GO BACK?

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As the spa girl and the stage diva in me battle it out, I’m just going to sit here and make sure my tracks don’t show.

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