French Canadian Haircut

I feel the need for some uplift after my overwhelmingly depressing posts of late. Sorry about that - I always swear that I don't actually PMS, but this may just be the conclusive proof to the contrary.

So. Haircut. I was avoiding this for a while because I know myself too well. I feel like there are two catagories of relationships women have with their hair. One, the predominant one I think, is that of an intense protective love: women whose memories, sex appeal, self confidence, or entire identities are inextricably linked to their precious locks. These women usually have long straight hair with a few short layers around their face and "natural" highlights - I know you know at least 8 of them, be honest. And then there are those who maintain only a fairweather friendship with any given hairstyle, and are constantly seeking variety, whether driven by an incessant desire for self betterment and reinvention or a subversive anti-conformist blah blah blah indie garbage reason. I belong to the latter.

So, knowing this about myself, but also knowing both A) that I am discontentedly single and B) boys like pretty long hair, I feared a trip to the hairdresser where I would doubtless foil my own efforts to grow out my hair after hearing, for not the first time, that I just can't wear it long. Yes, I am fully aware of how pathetic this makes me sound. I'm being honest. My hair is fine and thin and simply not hearty enough to survive for more than a year without shattering into a million long stringy split ends. I hope, though am not entirely convinced, that this will not prove to be an allegory for my life: I think it will take the form of a psychological break at 30, not a literal physical combustion, but I'm no soothsayer.

But also part and parcel of knowledge column B) would be to not look like shit - and my hair has been looking like shit. So I dropped by a salon near my house, the Funky Toque, last night to book myself a hair appointment. I had been warned by girls on my rugby team to not go anywhere too Quebecois. Why? "You will get the shaggy layered Quebecois mullet." It is the eurotrash mullet, but especially greasy as this is not Europe but Montreal, and therefore the mullet will inevitably be paired with plaid, high waisted shorts, garish lipstick and ill-groomed under arms. Not to say that I have not dappled in these looks (well, not highwaisted shorts - I am way to pear shaped for that nonsense), but I'm trying to paint a picture here, ok? So I figured "THE Funky Toque" - it's not "LE Funky Toque," and, though my French is abysmal, I was pretty sure that Funky remains strictly an Anglo word.

And then the girl colouring my hair, after I confess that I don't speak French, tells me "ok, uh, please speak slowly. I do not speak English. Well."

Turns out that the girl cutting my hair (distinct from the girl colouring it - which I found odd) was the only non-Quebecois in the salon. Still, she did have a penchant for layers - acculturation, it happens I guess. I gave her carte blanche (see, I'm picking up some French...), with a mention that I've been growing it out.

I can almost get it in a pony tail...

What do you think?

sorry - laptop picture. Soon I'm hoping to discover what I did with my camera's battery charger...