The cheapest haircut on earth

My grandmother had a lot to get used to when she moved from Bensonhurst to Park Slope. First was the dearth of elderly people of any kind, but in particular Italians. Second was the exorbitant price of everything but in particular, groceries. The thing about Park Slope is, one never gets used to just how insanely expensive everything is, especially if one is 80 years old and used to prices which haven't changed since the 1960s.

Case in point: my grandmother's beauty shop.

Last week, my grandmother had to go to a wedding, for the granddaughter of one of her best friends. She needed a haircut. Now I can never really tell the difference when Nonnie gets her hair cut -- it goes from boy short to slightly boy shorter -- but you better believe she can tell the difference.

"I can't go to dis weddin' witoutta haircut," she said early in the week, "Where do you get you hair cut?"

"There's a place around the corner," I told her, "Its pretty cheap."

"Oh yeah," she said, "How much?"

"About $60, I think," I said.

"No, Nicole," she said, clucking her teeth, "You wrong."

"You get you hair color, and so dat's why you pay $60," she went on.

"Well I do get highlights," I said, "But those cost more than $60. Those are probably $75/ 80 on top of the haircut."

She looked at me in horror, speechless.

"Whaddayou, crazy?" she asked, "You wanna know how much I pay to get my hair cut in Brooklyn?"

I have stopped reminding her that Park Slope is Brooklyn. Its futile.

"How much?"

"Guess," she coaxed me.

"I don't know, $35? $30?"

Nonnie got that terrifically satisfied look she gets on her face when she has found an amazing bargain, outwitted people from robbing her blind.

:$15," she said, "including tip."

"FIFTEEN DOLLARS?" I asked her.

"Yes," she confirmed, "$13, and then I give her $2 for tip."

"And you know how much Maria pays to get the color?"

"I can't even imagine."

"$26," she replied, proudly, "For that, you get you head washed, hair cut, hair color, and she blow dry you hair."

"You don't have to include the head washing part," I told her, "That comes with the price, everybody gets their hair washed when its cut."

"Oh no, I'm sorry, you wrong," she corrected me, "To wash you head, that's extra. But I pay $15 and I get my head washed."

"Well, I don't think you'll do better than that. I don't think you can buy a pair of scissors to cut your own hair for that price. I think you should go get it done in Bensonhurst."

And today, $15 lighter in the pocket, she is the proud owner of a slightly shorter boy haircut. The hairspray involved in the 'do alone probably cost more than $10. You can't beat Bensonhurst for a bargain.

Beware the unplanned radical haircut!!!

Its Hump Day again and I am charged with the task of lifting the spirits of those faithful readers who visit All Kinds of Pretty, of galvanizing them to fashion greatness, even on a Wednesday. But today I can only offer a cautionary tale:

The longing to refresh your look is natural, nay, unavoidable. You want bold strokes, a little change that makes a big impact. You want a radical haircut. And, if you’re like me, a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-er, you don’t want to labor over the decision, hemming and hawing for months

But readers, oh, readers, beware the spontaneous radical haircut! It can go terribly wrong.

The deal is this: my hair is, as you see here, thin, generally lifeless, the kind that looks worse the longer it gets. I WANT to be a long-haired beauty but I am not. So, recently, I decided I had to accept my hair’s limitations and get it chopped off. I opted to forgo the cheap local salon on the corner and splurge on the fancy Manhattan salon I sometimes go to – Arrojo, started by Nick Arrojo from What Not To Wear. I always make last-minute appointments and end up with whoever’s free at the time I can squeeze the cut in, and this time I ended up with . . .

The Mean Stylist.

You know the type. He makes faces of disgust when assessing your hair pre-cut, asking you what kind of shampoo you use with eyebrows raised, wondering where on earth you went for your last (implication:awful!) haircut, informing you that your ends are way too dry, that the cut you’ve chosen makes your face look fat, and, for extra measure, recommending you get your color done – by him – as soon as humanly possible.

This stylist also told me that I was parting my hair the wrong way. I HATE when they tell me that I am fighting against my hair’s natural part because I think this shit about having a natural part is a bunch of baloney. But he convinced me

1. To go from past shoulder-length to a chin bob.
2. To get bangs, despite the fact that in 30 plus years I have NEVER looked good in bangs
3. To part my hair on the other side

This is me in the Arrojo bathroom, trying to put on a happy face:

As I told the Mean Stylist, “I’’m past the age where I’m going to burst into tears if I don’t like the cut.” However, I am NOT past the age where I’m gonna write blog-rants about it.

I hate this haircut. I hate that it makes me feel like a broadcast journalist or a soccer mom and I hate that it makes me feel like I am in the early 90s. Most of all I hate that I am now forced to part my hair on the opposite side which makes me have a minor nervous breakdown every time I look in the mirror. It’s like an alarm goes off in my head, which bleeps: “Wrong side part! Identity compromised! Adjust part! Adjust part!”

So now I’m just trying to remind myself that hair grows and hey, nothing wagered, nothing gained.

Are you as spineless as I am in the face of the mean stylist? And does the spontaneous radical hair-cut EVER work?