It may be 1994.

If you are listening to the radio and waiting to hear some Counting Crows or Sheryl Crow and wondering why you're not hearing it, I'll tell you. Because it's not 1994. But maybe you think it is. But it's not.

Let's go back to Friday afternoon.

Sometimes, I get free haircuts. This is the perk of working at a beauty magazine, and I'm not complaining. But sometimes, this can be a bad thing.

Usually it's the senior stylist or owner of the salon who cuts my hair, as part of the event I'm at. Which means for a couple of months I have a haircut I love. A haircut I could never afford. Until a few months pass, and then, I have split ends, frizz and general misconduct at the top of my head. And I need another haircut.

If I'm lucky, I can hold out until another event. Otherwise, I need to pay to get my hair cut, which I'm fine with (sort of), except that the best things in life sometimes are free and because I get a lot of cuts from a lot of different stylists I don't have a regular stylist so whenever I have to pay, my indecision rears it ugly head and I can't figure out where to go. I've tried to find one that I could stick with (and who wouldn't give me a mullet for going to someone else every once in a while because it's free), but I've never found one I love. To love him, he must meet five criteria:

a) be a man (I'm convinced women try to make other women look bad)

b) have a likeable personality (funny but don't ask five billion work questions)

c) give me a good haircut (and don't try to convince me to get a buzz cut)

d) not cost seventeen thousand dollars



e) be in a convenient location. I am lazy and I like things to be near home or work or I will not go.


I have yet to find a hairstylist who meets all five criteria.


So last week I wore my hair up five days in a row, a sure sign it was time for a cut. My hair was practically reaching my waistband when I wore high waisted pants. I am not a hippie and my hippie hair needed to go.


I wanted to go back to the guy I went to about six months ago, who I loved, but he charged $225. For a cut and style. I'm not joking. I cannot afford this. I cannot afford anything that costs $225 unless it was a brand new car.


My second choice was another senior stylist at another salon who I really liked too. I called and asked his price: $125. Still, this is just too much. I have long hair. It's easy to cut. I really don't think I should have to pay $125 for a haircut. This, to me, is a good pair of shoes, which will last longer than six weeks.






There was another stylist who once styled my hair and cut my bangs (but not my hair) that I liked, and he only charged $75, but was located on Queen West, which isn't in my hood and I didn't think I could commit to going out there for my haircuts, especially if I wasn't sure he would give me a good cut.

I should've gone to him.


Instead I asked my editor friend, who knows his hairstylists. He recommended the owner of a salon that was halfway between work and home. Perfect location, and when he called for the price, it was $55. I couldn't believe my luck. I even got an appointment the very next day. It should've been a sign.



I was so set on the location and price that I failed to put any weight in the fact that it was my editor friend's old bald friend who loved the hairstylist. What kind of criteria is an old bad guy looking for in a hairstylist?


So I went.


I should've known right from the start it would be bad. I told him what I wanted him to do. Then he asked me what was the shortest I'd ever worn my hair. I told him I'd had a boy cut when I was 10. I looked like a boy. And I'd had a bob in university. I looked like a boy. So if he could please just give me the haircut I asked for, I would be very happy. It's not as if I was asking him to trim a mere 1/4". I was letting him cut off at least six inches from the back, maybe more. I wasn't holding his scissors back, I just didn't want to look like Demi Moore in GI Jane.





And now, I have the Rachel.




Yesterday, I tried to pull on it to make it straighter in the hopes that the layers would stop flipping out, but they would not cooperate. So then I tried to curl them, but the curls just made the flippy layers more flippy and layered. I put it in a ponytail. It was the Rachel in a ponytail.


I have nothing against the Rachel. It was a fine cut. I had it.


In 1994.


I do not want the Rachel now. I do not want my hair in syndication. I want my hair on HBO. To have 1994 hair is like reverting in time. I feel like I should put on dress with tights and Doc Martin boots.


I would've stayed in all weekend, but I had to go out. As I walked down Yonge Street I could see people staring and I know what they were thinking: "Did I just time travel when I crossed Bloor Street? Is it 1994?"


If you have felt that way this weekend, you have not time travelled. You just witnessed my hair. I'm very sorry for you.


But selfishly, I'm sorrier for me.