Right now, the status of my haircut is, as quoted by my house guests: "Don't worry about the back. The front looks good, so people will just assume the back does too." It took 4 haircuts and $38 to get this way. I'd say I miss living in a big, salon-filled city, but then wherein would lie the comedy?
The first haircut was by actual appointment, shortly after I had changed into dry clothes after jumping in the 40 degree ocean to push my plane off a remote beach where it was being pummeled by waves. After the adrenaline, and then the cold, subsided, the next thing on my mind was grooming. Natural, right?
The guy asked how I wanted it cut, and I answered "long layers." Forty-five minutes later, after he advised me that I would look great with a spiral perm (the 1980s called, they want their style advice back), I emerged with a blow-dried version of a Darth Vader helmet: tragically un-layered in a distinct A-shape around my head. I paid him.
Blessed with an 18- and a 20-year-old cousin staying with me for the summer, I came home to two hip college girls who told me that my hair looked horrible. Thanks, I know.
After contemplating this problem for a day, the older one, Taylor, announced that she thought she could fix it. And, truthfully, Homer doesn't have a lot of options for emergency stylist services. Given a half hour on my lunch break, Taylor cut my hair into two distinct layers: kind of Darth Vader gets a wedding cake, which, we can all agree, is better than a grumpy, single Darth Vader.
Hats can work wonders, and I had other things to worry about, mainly that I had just found out from his housesitter that the guy I work for left town for the summer. Back at work, trying to finish up the pilot training we started before the boss left, we jumped in a plane and headed west. An hour later, after talking the ears off remote park staff, we realized the plane was stuck. The tide had gone out while we jabbered.
In the water, well over my hipwaders, I shoved the plane into deeper water. The other pilot started the plane while I held onto the float in the propwash, and hoisted myself in the cargo door. En route back to Homer, we congratulated ourselves on another ridiculous adventure where no one got hurt, no metal got bent, and we didn't have to use my new satellite phone. I also wrung the water out of my socks.
Finally back in dry clothes, I settled in for a quiet night of reading at home when my cousins blasted in the door. Taylor announced that she had thought about it all day, and could 'definitely' fix my haircut. She took a full hour and produced many many many more layers than the two she had left me with this afternoon. In fact, now the number of layers was insane. I've seen children give sheepdogs better haircuts.
I was forced to take matters into my own hands. Floatplanes and air taxis are simple, compared to attempting to cut your own hair. But, armed with desperation at how long I would have to wear a hat, and emboldened by the fact that just last week I cut my own lawn (how much harder can hair be?), I stood in front of a mirror in my living room and started snipping. The results are short, but acceptable-- in the front. I can't see the back, and when I asked my cousins how it looked, they said, "people will assume the back looks as good as the front."It's 11:30 at night, too light to see a lunar eclipse, and there's a good chance I'll end up in the ocean again tomorrow-- people's assumptions will have to do.
The first haircut was by actual appointment, shortly after I had changed into dry clothes after jumping in the 40 degree ocean to push my plane off a remote beach where it was being pummeled by waves. After the adrenaline, and then the cold, subsided, the next thing on my mind was grooming. Natural, right?
The guy asked how I wanted it cut, and I answered "long layers." Forty-five minutes later, after he advised me that I would look great with a spiral perm (the 1980s called, they want their style advice back), I emerged with a blow-dried version of a Darth Vader helmet: tragically un-layered in a distinct A-shape around my head. I paid him.Blessed with an 18- and a 20-year-old cousin staying with me for the summer, I came home to two hip college girls who told me that my hair looked horrible. Thanks, I know.
After contemplating this problem for a day, the older one, Taylor, announced that she thought she could fix it. And, truthfully, Homer doesn't have a lot of options for emergency stylist services. Given a half hour on my lunch break, Taylor cut my hair into two distinct layers: kind of Darth Vader gets a wedding cake, which, we can all agree, is better than a grumpy, single Darth Vader.
Hats can work wonders, and I had other things to worry about, mainly that I had just found out from his housesitter that the guy I work for left town for the summer. Back at work, trying to finish up the pilot training we started before the boss left, we jumped in a plane and headed west. An hour later, after talking the ears off remote park staff, we realized the plane was stuck. The tide had gone out while we jabbered.
In the water, well over my hipwaders, I shoved the plane into deeper water. The other pilot started the plane while I held onto the float in the propwash, and hoisted myself in the cargo door. En route back to Homer, we congratulated ourselves on another ridiculous adventure where no one got hurt, no metal got bent, and we didn't have to use my new satellite phone. I also wrung the water out of my socks.
Finally back in dry clothes, I settled in for a quiet night of reading at home when my cousins blasted in the door. Taylor announced that she had thought about it all day, and could 'definitely' fix my haircut. She took a full hour and produced many many many more layers than the two she had left me with this afternoon. In fact, now the number of layers was insane. I've seen children give sheepdogs better haircuts.
I was forced to take matters into my own hands. Floatplanes and air taxis are simple, compared to attempting to cut your own hair. But, armed with desperation at how long I would have to wear a hat, and emboldened by the fact that just last week I cut my own lawn (how much harder can hair be?), I stood in front of a mirror in my living room and started snipping. The results are short, but acceptable-- in the front. I can't see the back, and when I asked my cousins how it looked, they said, "people will assume the back looks as good as the front."It's 11:30 at night, too light to see a lunar eclipse, and there's a good chance I'll end up in the ocean again tomorrow-- people's assumptions will have to do.
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