In this week’s Weekly Law Reports (which I’m sure you all keep by your loo – for one reason or another) it has been decided that cutting off someone’s hairwithout their consent may amount to an assault “causing actual bodily harm” (known colloquially as “abh”).
That’s one to bear in mind next time your hairdresser does what my barber tends to do to me.
Cheer an old man up – tell me about your worst hair experience please.
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LT-Girl has threatened to castrate my lovely hairdresser if he cuts my hair as short as he did last time. Would that count as assault, do you think?
Well I’m not a criminal lawyer but I’m going with yes (and crossing my legs) (and making a mental note never to be nasty about LT-Girl).
My worst hair disaster?
There have been several.
The most memorable one is probably when my friend Sunni gave me an undercut with her mum’s ladyshave, revealing my port wine birthmark in all its glory. It was ugly ugly ugly – the hairdo was anyway. I decided to dye it pillar box red, (as if that would make it look better…) but the dye didn’t take in my hair. It did take on my scalp, my ears, my neck and my forehead and on the bathroom wall. It took about a fortnight to come off completely.
3rd grade
Home perm given by my aunt and mother
Roller marks permanently indenting my long blonde hair that I can’t undo or fix.
School photos the next day.
Do you feel better now?
Christina – I do indeed.
I think my own was the beard I grew in college. The thin and wispy moustache made me look like Fu Manchu; the bald patch under my bottom lip shone whiter than a rabbit’s arse and the verdant undergrowth beneath my chin was an attractive mixture of black and ginger.
Oh – there was also the student party incident. Y’know – nobody ever has a lighter? So I lean over the gas cooker to light my ciggy and …. yes … lose my fringe. My, that smelt lovely and it looked even better!
When I was little, my friend’s mother “supposedly” knew how to cut hair. She said she would give me a haircut. I called to ask my mom, she said Are you sure? I was like pssshhh it’s fine MOM! My hair was long, almost to my elbows. I told her to trim the back and give me a couple of layers on the sides. She started cutting and cutting and cutting. I was getting scared…..she was cutting a lot off the back I thought.
FInally when she was done I looked in the mirror and I had a BOWL CUT. I’m not kidding, like she took a bowl put it over my head and cut around it. I looked in the mirror and almost started crying. They were all “Oh it looks so nice on you! Doesn’t she look pretty!” *blank stare at the mirror in disbelief*
I was living in SF and this “hair stylist” told me that “SURE…it’s ok to perm AND color your hair at the same time”. When she was done…I literally CRIED in the chair. I looked like friggin Annie…on crack.
People in the other chairs tried sooooo hard not to stare in horror at what this woman had done to my hair. I had to wear a hat wherever I went for like a week…as they didn’t want to fix it right away or my hair might have completely FALLEN OUT!
I had to get it cut REALLLLLLY short….died back to blonde and go through TWO YEARS of cutting…growing back…cutting…until it was healthy…as they had damaged almost every friggin head on my hair.
Trauma trauma trauma!!!
I have waited a long time for someone to ask me for the worst hair experience. A few years ago i was in a huge city on holiday and looking for a hairdresser. As is the way of these things, the minute I wanted a hairdresser there was none to be found and i wandered the streets for ages and finally found somewhere. An appointment was made for later that afternoon and I returned and at this point discovered that I was in the Korean quarter and was the only westerner in the salon.
I wanted a straightforward cut and blowdry and the lady washed my hair and when she sat me in front of the mirror, holding the scissors above my head she asked me what she should do. I asked her just to trim it and then point the hairdryer at it. She shook her head slowly and started picking strands of hair up and tutting. My hair is very curly and when it needs cutting it has all the style of an old english sheepdog. She started snipping ineffectually and asked me if I wanted curly hair. I explained that I had no choice and that it was what I’d been given. She shook her head and snipped a bit more whilst tutting.
She carried on snipping and looking at my hair and tutting. Then she started to tell me that I had ‘bad hair’. “You have bad hair’ snip. ‘really BAD hair’ snip. ‘Your hair is really really BAD’. It is BAD hair.’ You have BAD hair.’ snip snip snip.
At this point I explained that she’d cut enough – I was starting to get frightened and could she just dry it. She used about 5 brushes and took about 2 hours to completely straighten my hair – at one point she was almost kneeling on my chest and pulling my hair as tight as possible, whilst all the time telling me how bad my hair was.
I looked ridiculous.
I was in a barber’s shop once, just sitting minding my own business, flipping through a magazine about golf, cars and other things I hate, and the barber came over and said “what’ll it be for you today, sir?” Jokingly, I told him I’d like my hair cut nice and short, with just a trim on top. Next thing I know, snip snip snippo, the crazy sonofabitch is going at me with the scissors and one of those electrical gadgets. I figured either I’d said something wrong or I was being mugged, so I gave him all my money and ran for my life. Looking back, a haircut was a small price to pay for escaping without more serious damage. And there’s a lesson learnt: now when I’m sitting in the barbershop, reading about cars and golf, I make sure I don’t take my helmet off, even for a second.
So there you go. That’s probably my worst hair experience.
In high school I went to one of this quick haircut places for my haircut before I went to work. Then, without really looking at it, I just pulled it up into a ponytail. After work I was dishing with some coworkers and pulled my off my scrunchie (yes, it was a time when scrunchies were appropriate!) and my coworker told me that my hair looked horribly uneven. I ran a brush through it and as it turns out, yes, it was about 3 inches shorter in one place in the back.
I went to high school with the hairdresser’s younger brother and the next day I told him what a moron she is. I’m sure she’s still cutting hair badly today.
Btw, your comment on my site cracked me up today, moobs!
Worst hair – that would have to be the time I watched a Meg Ryan movie and descided I wanted that cute little pixie cut she had. Only problem is she has a nice slender oval face, I have a nice fat round face. I looked like one of the Beattles, it was aweful. I cried… a lot.
I have 2 horror stories, in fact.
When I was 14 I decided that I would dye my (at that stage still quite blonde) hair red. Being a bit of a wouss I decided to use a wash-in wash-out dye, which would only last 7 washes. I washed it in OK, and it looked quite funky. It was pretty orange, but Cathy Dennis was big at the time and she had orangey-red hair, so I thought I was cool. The problem came when the dye started to wash out. It faded to a fetching shade of baby pink – which then stuck fast and refused to budge. I had to wait for it to grow out.
When I was 10 my friends and I built a wooden hut which would serve as our clubhouse. To prove membership of the club we all agreed to cut off some hair. The other girls sensibly took a small snip out of the back. I, however, grabbed a handful at centre front and hacked it off at scalp level. I then spent months with a combover to try to cover up my bald patch. Lovely.
that would be the only time i ever dyed my hair and it came out the same color as my skin. i looked more like a puppet than a person.
about a week later, i grew tired of the stares and completely shaved my head.
Oh yeah, I also forgot my widow’s peak. When I was about 11 I decided that I really hated it and shaved it off. What I didn’t think about was how weird it would look and how long I’d have a tuft of hair growing out of my forehead for.
I have a love-hate relationship with hairdressers. I love the pampering, hate the mirror. As soon as I take my glasses off I can’t see a thing which is very useful when the torturer… hairdresser says “Is that short enough?”. I specfied that I wanted a bob about an inch above my shoulder, with a fringe, and ended up with no fringe and it barely covering my ears. People could see my face! It was a disaster, but not as bad as the 9 inches of hair cut off and a feather cut put in… or the tight bubble perm… Oh, the 80s!
My mother committed a crime against me by subjecting me to a perm at the tender age of 10. Mind you, I have curly, curly hair but somehow she felt that it needed yet another curl. I refer to that time as my AFRO year and I sill feel the pang as I write this now.
Kevin – Were you more like a muppet or one of the Thunderbirds?
Bec – Did the fringe really cover your face?
Andreia – Early in my relationship with P she asked “do you think I should have a perm?” I kept saying that it was up to her. That was not a sufficient answer. I said that I didn’t think she would look good as a poodle. She then told me it would be a “soft perm” that would “just put a little structure in”. When I went to meet her afterwards I stood about waiting and wondering how Hair Bear had managed to find his way to London and why he was crying his eyes out. Then it dawned on me …