Memoirs of a Fat Girl

What is the best way to kickstart a "Project Pretty"?

With a trip to the salon, of course. Tomorrow I am scheduled for a colour, possible highlights, and possible cut. The possibles I will leave in the hands of the master. It is the start of summer, it is just before my birthday, and it is the start (yet again) of a newer, prettier me.

I am elated. I am elated because very soon my hair will at least be a whole new colour, and that is something to get really excited about. I am also ashamed. I am ashamed because I am a slut. For the first time ever, I am cheating on my colourist AND my stylist.

Normally when I leave a salon forever, it is because hired hair person becomes overconfident and starts slacking. Pilar was my last colourist. I knew it was time to part ways when I asked her to please remove my way, way overgrown black lowlights; they were past my temples already. Pilar, exasperated, wailed, "I just don't have *time* for this!" and proceeded to do a crappy job. All she did was dye my roots bright red, still charged full price, and saw me to the door. Hasta Luego, Pilar.

Funny enough, the drama continued at the totally different place I got my hair cut. Stylist Shoji was continuing his good work, but developed the nasty little habit of talking behind my back. I don't know what he was saying or why, but sweetheart, when your salon is covered in mirrors, as salons usually are, do not point, whisper, and laugh at your clients. Backs might be turned, but we can still see you, you know. Sayonara, Shoji-san.

I am decently happy at my new place, more so because colour and cut are under the same roof. Charlie Brown, my colourist, is flaming fire gay and has a tight ass. Every visit, he sticks it out so I can put one hand in his jeans pocket and give it a good squeeze. Tasty. We talk girl talk, and dish outrageous one liners that would make a priest flail holy water. Best to date has been, "Honey, the only virgin on you is your nose, and even that's been picked."

Roxy is my stylist. Foxy Roxy, plenty of moxy, how does your garden grow? With polish and nails, and children's pigtails, and pretty curls all in a row. I adore Roxy. She is short, British, super saucy, and has hair just like mine. Curly girls, I cannot enough stress the importance of having your stylist understand your hair. It's not just about cutting the hair, it's about being the hair. I have had 58341 haircuts in this lifetime. Maybe 20 were passable, but 11 have been totally stellar. All the stellars came from Roxy.

Tomorrow, I am at least temporarily leaving these people. I should be purged, flogged, then made to wear bright yellow spandex. It's just that in this case, I can't resist.

Oh, Lance. Antsy Lancey, you're so schmancy, biting charm and full of fancy. Lance used to work in the same salon as Charlie Brown and Foxy Roxy and is, in fact, Oli's stylist. Oli looks spectacular, always, so when Lance left salon #1 for salon #2, Oli left with him.

Lance is fabulously gay. Intensely so. This explains why he is so well dressed, and has perfectly plucked eyebrows. Lance has never done anything to my head except wash it once, and what a memorable wash that was. Right when I sat down he said to me, "I give the best hair washes ever." I'm thinking, yeah I've heard that before, until he actually got started. He did this fingertip-twirl thing that made my toes curl up, and I almost climaxed right there in my seat. Heavens to Murgatroid.

Best of all, even if he did give shitty haircuts, which he doesn't, he is very easy on the eyes. The first time moms saw Lance, she dug her nails into my forearm and said, "Oh my goodness, oh my GOODNESS, what a terrible shame if he's gay!"

Sorry mom. For us, a shame it is. The boys of the world should be thanking their ruby slippers. If he was straight, though, I'm willing to bet he wouldn't be half as much fun.

And so, Lance, tomorrow I entrust my crowning glory, my glorious mane to your capable hands. Since you are a rookie in this corner and years of bad haircuts have scarred me for life, I have only a small list of requests by which you must abide at all times:

1) No intense choppage.
2) No straightening.
3) No blonde highlights.

And one more rule, just because you love me:

4) Every so often I get to pinch your tight ass.

When eventually I do run into Foxy Roxy and Charlie Brown, when they see that my curls have been treated by other hands than theirs and I am confronted with their wounded faces, I will lie. I will lie like a cheap rug. I will make up something, I will tell it to them, and it will be so convincing they will believe me. I will lie like a professional, and I will keep seeing Lance whenever my hair screams for more.

Wow. I feel so *dirty*.