Scary Hairy

Today’s headache is starting to kick in. After re-posting a job description on craigslist because the first round of applicants (150 of them!!!) were so dismal, 8 new equally dismal resumes have come in (thus far). I’m not claiming to be a Mensa member, but if the job description says:

…starting on a PART-TIME, HOURLY BASIS. CANDIDATES SEEKING FULL-TIME EMPLOYMENT WILL NOT BE CONSIDERED.

would you (not the me “you,” but all you yous out there) really apply if you wanted a full-time job? Well, would you (again, you, not me)? I, for one, would not. Does that ALL CAPITAL LETTER deal not scream out at you? Hell, I feel like someone is yelling in my face when I get an email with all capital letters. Urrgh. Apparently the youth of today are not put off by all caps. So bold. So apparently undeterred by common sense.

I got so frustrated that I replied to one of the new applicants, Morris is his name, asking if he was looking for a part-time position. Here is his reply:

Ms. Simonsen

Thank you for your prompt reply. I am looking for a full time position. Please call me if your any further questions.

Thank You

Wtf????

Oh well, so anyway, the headache. I figured ranting here would ease the pain just a bit, and actually I’m quite looking forward to leaving work today (yes, as I do EVERY day) because I’m off to get my hair cut tonight. What is it about going to my stylist that’s so appealing? Well it’s certainly not that I get to call her my “stylist”; in fact, I have a hard time saying this word, although I have no idea why. It sounds so Beverly Hills, I guess, and well, I’m just not.

I think there are a number of things that do make it appealing though: the fact that you can guiltlessly page through the latest People Magazine, eavesdrop on the conversation of the client before you, get your head massaged while shampooed (even if this does simultaneously entail the back-of-the-neck-pressed-against-the-cold-hard-sink torture), and talk about anything that strikes your fancy when it’s your turn in the chair.

There are also, of course, the less-than-ideal things about going to the stylist. There is the sink torture mentioned above, and the fact that you are forced to stare at yourself in the mirror while looking like a drowned rat

with your wet hair plastered to the side of your head, and/or when you get to look at yourself in the same mentioned mirror all decked out in head armor -- those neat little rows of aluminum foil that make you look like some sort of crazy lady trying to contact UFOs.

But the biggest reason to fear the SALon, as my stylist calls it, is THE BAD HAIRCUT. My last haircut was one of these. And I was not expecting it. Not at all. I love my stylist. I’ve been going to her for years, 14 or so. She even did my wedding up-do (which in retrospect was a big waste of time, but that’s a whole other subject). I trust her. Completely. Turns out this was a big mistake.

I told her, as I’m sure none of you would be so foolish to do, that “I need a change. Do what you want.” If you are not gasping right now, you should be. It was dumb. I know. I’m not sure why I couldn’t see the carnage happening while in the chair, some sort of you-can-do-anything-you-want-as-long-as-you-keep-playing-with-my-hair trance, I guess. But I knew pretty quickly after leaving the SALon.

I definitely knew before I arrived at my boyfriend’s house, but what was I going to do? Spend the night in the car? We’ve not been going out too long, so I knew he wouldn’t be too cruel. He tried to play it off, but he was unconvincing. This of course sent me right to the bathroom mirror, where I decided it was some modern, female version of a mullet. Yes, a mullet. An updated, urban 2008 mullet.

I drank a few beers. I forgot about it. Until the next morning. This is when it gets really bad. I realized that I had a Hilary Clinton do! Just a little bit longer. A little extra length was the only real difference between our haircuts.

You can imagine my surprise.

I admitted my discovery to my boyfriend. Here is what the cold-hearted bastard said to me: “Hilary’s hair style is very age-appropriate.”

Hilary is 60, I am 39! Not even yet 40 (though pushing it for sure).

God I hope today goes better....