Last year, I went around for weeks with two lines of Lady Gaga’s song “Poker Face” stuck in my head.
“P-p-p-poker face, Mum, mum, mum, mah, p-p-poker face, mum mum mum,” I’d sing. It was just one of those tunes stuck in my head, even if I only knew a couple of lines.
I had no clue what I was singing.
Then one day, I googled the lyrics. Sheesh. Holy cow. Sheesh.
I stopped singing “Poker Face.”
But now I have a new Lady Gaga song in my head, “Bad Romance.” Again, I can only understand about two lines of the lyrics. And since I am not a participant in a bad romance (thank you, Tom), I started substituting the only thing that had gone wrong in my life lately: my hair.
“P-p-p-poker face, Mum, mum, mum, mah, p-p-poker face, mum mum mum,” I’d sing. It was just one of those tunes stuck in my head, even if I only knew a couple of lines.
I had no clue what I was singing.
Then one day, I googled the lyrics. Sheesh. Holy cow. Sheesh.
I stopped singing “Poker Face.”
But now I have a new Lady Gaga song in my head, “Bad Romance.” Again, I can only understand about two lines of the lyrics. And since I am not a participant in a bad romance (thank you, Tom), I started substituting the only thing that had gone wrong in my life lately: my hair.
After going to the same hairdresser for the past eleventy-nine years, she went a little wacko on me. ‘Plain and simple,’ I always tell her. ‘Nothing fancy. Make my hair look like it belongs on a retired schoolteacher.’
She had tactfully labeled my hairstyle a “classic bob” during one visit, and I clung to that term. “Classic bob.” That was me. I liked the sound of it. I’m definitely a classic bob kind of woman.
And then, at my appointment in August, my hairdresser must have been inhaling too many peroxide fumes or slugging henna shots because she tried to go designer on me. Murmuring soothingly about layering and shaping, she cut my hair into little angles and corners and weird isometric tiers. It certainly didn’t help that this past August was the hottest and most humid August in the history of Minnesota summers. All those little hair angles and tress schmangles just frizzed up into shrubbery.
Sometimes when I get home from walking my two to four miles on a humid day, I glance at myself in the mirror and shriek in horror. I look like an extra in a scene from Night of the Walking Dead.
Don’t misunderstand me. I know full well that if the worst thing happening to me right now is a bad haircut, I am a lucky girl. Lucky, lucky, lucky. But I still find myself with that Lady Gaga tune rolling around in my head:
Rah rah ah-ah-ah!
Ro mah ro-mah-mah
Gaga Ooh-la-la!
Caught in a bad hairrrr-cut . . .
Before I start singing this at the top of my lungs in public places, I’d better google the rest of the lyrics. I have an uneasy feeling that Lady Gaga is talking smack again in this song, and it isn’t the type of song a classic-bob sort of lady wants to be singing, even if she does have a bad haircut.
She had tactfully labeled my hairstyle a “classic bob” during one visit, and I clung to that term. “Classic bob.” That was me. I liked the sound of it. I’m definitely a classic bob kind of woman.
And then, at my appointment in August, my hairdresser must have been inhaling too many peroxide fumes or slugging henna shots because she tried to go designer on me. Murmuring soothingly about layering and shaping, she cut my hair into little angles and corners and weird isometric tiers. It certainly didn’t help that this past August was the hottest and most humid August in the history of Minnesota summers. All those little hair angles and tress schmangles just frizzed up into shrubbery.
Sometimes when I get home from walking my two to four miles on a humid day, I glance at myself in the mirror and shriek in horror. I look like an extra in a scene from Night of the Walking Dead.
Don’t misunderstand me. I know full well that if the worst thing happening to me right now is a bad haircut, I am a lucky girl. Lucky, lucky, lucky. But I still find myself with that Lady Gaga tune rolling around in my head:
Rah rah ah-ah-ah!
Ro mah ro-mah-mah
Gaga Ooh-la-la!
Caught in a bad hairrrr-cut . . .
Before I start singing this at the top of my lungs in public places, I’d better google the rest of the lyrics. I have an uneasy feeling that Lady Gaga is talking smack again in this song, and it isn’t the type of song a classic-bob sort of lady wants to be singing, even if she does have a bad haircut.
5 comments:
Now I'm going to be staring at your hair the next time I see you!
I liked it! It made you look at least 2 years younger! s.
I just have to do a followup report. I went back to the same hairdresser this morning to see if she could fix my hair. (She did and I feel much better.) BUT . . . here's the weird part. As I walked into the salon, screwing up my courage to tell her that we needed to have a talk, guess what was playing on the radio? I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. It was Lady Gaga singing "Bad Romance." No lie. I cross my heart and hope to die if it's not the truth!!!!
Well, do you have a picture of the "bad" haircut? Or did you have the haircut in the anniversary picture of you and Tom? Because I have the record for bad haircuts--62 years. I always wonder why the hairdresser asks how I want my hair cut, and then does whatever he/she wants to do anyway. And every mistake in my hair shows up. So now I am sticking with the same bad hairdresser because she is less than a mile away and charges $20, and besides I am growing out the gray so I don't care anyway.
Elaine: I think we should all just buy a cute hat and forget the haircuts. Life is way too short to stress out about hair. I'm beginning to envy balding men. The freedom!!!
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