Can you get drunk for $20?
A cocktail review written after an "emotional reaction haircut"
Haircut and a buzz (but not a buzz cut): kind of
You can get drunk and get a haircut for $60
Haircut: $50 before tip, includes one beer in a frosted glass; Agave restaurant jumbo margarita: $9.50 before tip
Here are some truths about life and living:
Hindsight is 20/20.
The key to getting what you want is to show up and ask twice.
Sometimes you don't choose your bangs; they choose you.
This morning, I didn't plan to get bangs. I didn't plan to get a haircut at all. I didn't plan to get drinks either. Yet, here I am, drunk at midnight with freshly shorn fringe grazing my eyebrows.
My week until this morning had been about normal: work really hard at two jobs, struggle to complete creative projects, take care of my mom after she got hit by a car, calm my own nerves after no one else in my family cared very much about the aforementioned incident. Easy.
I've been feeling a vague sense of dread because I really wanted to change primary jobs by Labor Day, and yet a week out I'm doing the same shit as usual. I've had some interviews, and invariably someone says to me, "So, you've been at the same job for, oh, almost seven years." I know neither the question nor the answer. "Yes."
I didn't realize it until today, until this #TBT morning, that September 1 has such symbolic meaning for so many of my friends, but it makes enough sense that it does. It's a clear delineator that employers, landlords and universities recognize. Still, I wasn't ready for the parade of progress-marking posts on social media today. TBT when I moved to ABC to do XYZ. Got it. Cool. OMG congrats. Fave. Me too, please.
Even less was I expecting a high school friend of mine to send an image of her future child's sonogram to the seven gal pals (plus my unfortunate prom date) who comprise my high school friend group. All are fine women who have achieved at least one of the following indicators of adulthood: advanced degree, spouse or child. Except me. I don't have any of those. I've been at the same job for, oh, almost seven years. I know neither the question nor the answer.
By 3 p.m., I needed a haircut. I've never needed something more. I spotted a few split ends in August, and I had been studying photos of Huma Abedin (before the re-emergence of Anthony's wiener) to determine whether a darker hair color would suit me as a dark-featured Hillary zealot. Bangs. Bangs! I needed a haircut today because I needed a haircut today. There is no better indicator of what is going on inside my head than what is going on atop it.
I called several salons and demurred over whether a haircut more than two hours from my call would be acceptable. Finally, I found a salon with an app, the calendar for which was wide open. A Google search of the salon promised cocktails and wine to clients. I booked a spot and showed up early. Time to party.
That app had nothing to do with the daily goings-on of the salon. When I arrived and stated that my appointment was at 5:45, I was told it was not. I repeated my request. It was satisfied. When I was offered non-alcoholic beverages, I accepted them, but then I also asked about the wine I had read about online. When denied, I employed ladylike deference to re-state my request. "Don't worry about it. I just saw that on the Elmwood Village Association website! I was so excited about it!" A beer in a frosty glass materialized. It may have been a Labatt Blue Light. I felt like a Lean In success story. (Obviously, I've never read Lean fucking In. Come on.)
That my app-assigned stylist took me between color applications and cuts is a testament to her professionalism and talent. She actually leaned in, and she wins me as a difficult but appreciative client who reliably tips 20 percent. I am pleased with how she mended my previously cut ick layers and added bangs. Bangs!
After the haircut, I met a gal pal who doesn't have a kid or graduate degree or a spouse (anymore) for a giant sour mixgarita and a pile of Mexican snacks. She's an amazing person whose self-awareness, selflessness and efforts are forever impressing me. We talked shit about all of you.
I started growing out my bangs about two years ago. I remembered having bangs throughout high school, college and the early, wild years of my 20s. When I got home, a little tipsy, I scrolled through the portraits I'm tagged to and realized my memory is false. Sometimes I had bangs, but more often I had a struggle with bangs. More often than not I was searching for a bobby pin and some dry shampoo. For now my cut is fresh, and tomorrow morning I'll ply my bangs into a pleasing shape and take some ibuprofen before going to work. I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger, as they say.