Shoot. Shoot. Bang. Bang.

I’m an advocate of change. Change is fantastic. If you ask me why I’ve lived in San Francisco since I was seventeen, my response is always the same, “piss off.” Like most females, I’m impulsive. With the increase of hormones coursing through me, my hair’s been growing like a compost soiled weed. I saw the opportunity to chop my hair. Of course, I would never trust my current stylist as he was an advocate of innovative design and creation. My stylist with his Manchester accent, is not one for long hair and I would somehow find myself with a short do that was individualistic for my ever growing plump face. Besides, others would stray from a salon named Mr. Pink Whistle, but I was a curious as a black cat.

I was on a star search for a new scissor hands. Jeeun recommended I take her boyfriends appointment slot as he couldn’t justify a hundred fifty for a men’s cut. Her stylist wasn’t accepting new clients, so I was in luck. It was settled except the appointment wasn’t till mid November. My dilemma was that my weed of a head was growing at an alarming rate and it hadn’t been cut in twelve months. It needed a little fixing.

I phoned the usual big names, Vidal had a one thirty appointment with their senior stylist and DiPietro had a four o’clock with a senior stylist. I opted for the latter as most of my previous stylists were Vidal alumni, switch up. As I strutted Post street, my intentions were to just get a trim. A little snip and call it a day.

I plopped into the chair. “What can I do for you today?” Regina’s head toppled with beautiful curls that would best be described as a weave.
“Bangs.” What was I saying? I continued, “Chinese bangs, straight across.” My heart raced with excitement.
“What about the ends?” She held up the aftermath of my former stylists sharp razor tips now jagged. “I mean really?” She was appaulled. Little did she know my last cut was a year ago and above the shoulder.
“Cut it off.” I was spontaneous and going with the flow. “I'm pregnant so it'll grow back in no time.”
“This much?” Her estimate was about three inches.
“Sure go for it.” I was giving this stranger full control of my mane.
“Layers? You need layers.” She was a car sales man hooking me up with options.
“No.” I stammered as the word “layers” is so 2005. “Just a trim.” I put my foot down. Regina’s eyes burned as she yearned to snip all my hair into a contemporary layer filled cluster. Besides, I had to leave a decent canvas for the real stylist in November.

Following a crap job of a shampoo absent of a scalp massage, I made way to the snipping chair. She combed my hair in front of my face. “Ready?” Regina leering a smile. “I’m scared.” I said it aloud.
“Don’t be scared honey.” She was warm and motherly. “Here we go.” She ran the scissors across my forehead. I could feel the steel softly run across and saw the fall of the royal length hit the floor.

A male customer flew in from Seattle also sought change. He initially flew in for the Folsom Street Fair, a gay and lesbian leather sexual extravaganza. The stylist amputated his blond ponytail that ranged approximately eight inches long. “Oh my god!” The gay man shrieked at the sight of his dead weight. Oh my god was right, as it wouldn’t be his new locks that would be the focal point at the leather affair.

Meanwhile, Regina quietly snipped refining the lay of the land that was my hair. I always treated my hair cuts like a massage, with silence. If I wanted to discuss current events, I’d plop myself at a coffee shop in the outskirts of the Mission. I liked what I saw in the mirror. It was exactly what I wanted straight thick bangs just like when I was five years old. It was hot! I absolutely loved it!

As the Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy warns one of the major rules of pregnancy is to not get a major hair cut. When gaining weight, I am one of those unlucky people that gains in the face. As I am gradually ripening with pregnancy, I assume that my face will follow suit. Instead of stuffing my face with egg mcmuffins, I thought squaring my face off with bangs might assist in slimming my cheek bones.

In the changing room, my face speckled with tiny chards of hair, I cursed the pedestrian service as Simon, former stylist, usually dusts me off like a dirty floor. Otherwise, I rejoiced in the haircut. My heart performed back flips in tune to my excitement. It was simple. It was clean. It was fabulous. I walked down the street with a bounce in my step and a different head on my shoulders.

This is Shellie stressing live life don’t let life live you back to you Bob at the studio.