adding ginger to your sass

GingerSass - adding ginger to your sass

She left me.

We’ve been together since I was a freshman in high school. She’s seen me grow from an awkward teenage girl to an awkward, yet somewhat together, woman. We’ve shared some intimate moments, and she was the one consistent factor over  the past 12 years, seeing my through high school, college, grad school, and the real world.

She was my hairdresser, and she left me.

Now, I understand why she left. Let’s call her Eva. For personal reasons, Eva went on leave, and then sent a letter saying she was moving to Florida. I never updated my contact address at the salon after moving, so I found out through my mom.


I’ve spent the past few weeks avoiding the situation, despite my ever-growing hair and bangs.

Then, yesterday morning, I took a deep breath and scheduled a haircut. I told the receptionist, who I’m going to call Rue, I’d go with anyone since I was one of Eva’s clients and needed a haircut.

“Oh, thank you so much for staying with us!!!” Rue gushed.

My haircut was scheduled for the afternoon. I had just under 4 hours to decide how to cut my hair.

I flipped through an old hair magazine, and started reminiscing about happier times, when Eva gave me a bob in college. I rocked that cut, and my hair ALWAYS looked amazing.

October 2009: The First Bob. LOOK AT MY BABYFACE.

October 2009: The First Bob. LOOK AT MY BABYFACE.

Maybe it was nostalgia, but I REALLY wanted to go back to a simpler time of less hair maintenance. My hair had gotten LONG, and, as a result, my hair routine had turned into pin-the-stupid-long-bangs-back-and-wear-a-ponytail.

So, I made myself look pretty, as one does when she is about to get a haircut, and made my way to the salon.

This a pre-haircut selfie FILLED WITH ANXIETY.

This a pre-haircut selfie FILLED WITH ANXIETY.

I was a bit early, so, as I waited, I tweeted my anxiety into the Tweetosphere.


In all reality, it felt like a bad breakup. It came out of nowhere.

We’d had our last “date” right before my birthday, and Eva oogled over my wedding pics and life was good. She told me a little bit of the stuff going on in her life, and she worked her magic. No matter what, she always made me feel like a million bucks. My hair always seemed to behave for her, something it rarely does for me.

When I gave her her tip and bid her farewell, she gave me a hug saying congratulations again on my wedding, and then goodbye. I didn’t think much of it, but, in retrospect, maybe she knew this would be the last time we’d see each other.

As I mentally prepped for my haircut, I felt oddly similar to how I had the first time I went on a first date after a bad break up in college. I felt like I was betraying Eva, but it had to be done in order for me to move forward.

So, I went for it and let “Brittany” cut my hair.

I smiled, awkwardly shook Brittany’s hand as we made our introductions, and immediately was taken aback when she led me to EVA’S CHAIR. I shook it off, and then jumped into telling Brittany what I wanted.

“An angled bob, short in the back, long in the front, with side bangs.”

I pulled up a picture on my phone and said I wanted it similar, but slightly longer, coming to about an inch below my chin, and with side bangs, not straight up bangs. When it comes to hair, I know how to place an order.

Hey, Google Girl. I want your hair.

I immediately sensed Brittany being nervous, but I shook it off. I mean, she was cutting my hair for the first time, and I was a client of one of the best stylists they’d had at the salon. As Rue had told me as I waited, they were reeling a bit with the loss of Eva. It didn’t sound like a lot of her clients were staying. Brittany had a lot of pressure on her.

Now, there are a few things I want to point out before I continue this story:

  1. I could have gone to Eva’s close friend at the salon who had trimmed my hair before the wedding, but she didn’t have any open appointments until 6pm. I wanted a day time appointment.
  2. Rue had told me on the phone that Brittany was a second tier stylist, which meant a) she had slightly less experience than Eva had (Eva had owned her own salon prior to this salon; she was a stylist OG. Nobody could compare to her experience!), b) she would take 45 minutes (which is the average amount of time my thick hair takes anyways), and c) she was cheaper by $5.
  3. I kind of wanted a PYT to do my hair so I wouldn’t have to go through the upheaval of a hair stylist breakup for like another 30 years.

So, an hour and twenty minutes later, my hair was done. I’d started to feel a little anxious, as Eva usually did my hair in 30 minutes or less, but, damn it, the first rule of dating is you shouldn’t compare your new girl to your ex. It’s bad for everyone. BUT IT TOOK SO LONG. I was feeling anxiety growing, especially when she was taking ten minutes to trim my side bangs, and it didn’t help when she asked me if I wanted her to blow dry my hair straight (the answer to this is ALWAYS yes) and if I wanted hairspray after we had just made small talk about how windy it was and how everyone needed hairspray in this kind of weather.

So, I kept my eyes closed as she finished my hair.

Then, she said, “Okay, all done!”

I didn’t know what to say except, “Okay, great!”

My heart wasn’t in it.

The end results

The end results

I looked cute, but, just to state the obvious, it’s not what I asked for.

circle the differences in these two photos.

I could have complained, I could have argued, but I don’t like confrontation. I didn’t look bad. I looked cute. It just wasn’t what I asked for.

It was a disappointing first date after an unexpected break up.

In about a month or so, I’ll call Eva’s friend. I’ll schedule a hair cut with her before my cousin’s Bat Mitzvah. I usually wait 2-3 months in between haircuts, but this is a different situation. Eva’s friend may not be Eva, but she’ll give me me what I want, at least for a few more years.

Then I’ll go through a hair stylist break up all over again.

She left me.


The top 10 reasons why I am too old to go clubbing anymore

I turned 23 a few months ago, and, like I had done for the past few years, I set up a birthday list and went dancing at a local club I’d frequented over the years. I had fun, but I felt out of place and way too old to be there. I went back on Friday night for a friend’s birthday, and I remembered why I hadn’t wanted to go back.

So, I present to you “The top 10 reasons why I am too old to go clubbing anymore”

10. I don’t feel comfortable dressing like it’s summer.
I’d much rather be wearing sweats than wearing the club-requisite of next-to-no-clothing. I hate wearing sweats.

9. It takes longer to do my hair and makeup than the amount of time I stay at the club.
It’s true– I spend about 2 hours working on my hair and makeup (and showering/ shaving/etc), and I usually leave clubs after a few hours.
8. It’s cheaper to buy a bottle of rum.
When you factor in tipping the bartender and the over-priced cost of club drinks, even during “drink specials,” a mediocre bottle of rum costs  less than my watered down Malibu Bay Breeze.
7. People are gross.
People don’t understand the concept of deodorant in clubs.

6. People are also disgusting.
People turn into–dare I say it– little skanks on the dance floor. Now, I usually go to gay clubs so this is applicable to the gay men, their token straight girl friends, and the occasional femme lesbian. Usually the butchier lesbians just turn into toolbags reminiscent of the stereotypical toolbag frat boy.

5. I’m expected to tip the awkward woman in the bathroom.
When you go to the bathroom, there’s an attendant in there who hands you a papertowel or says she likes your dress. Both of these things are not necessary. I can get my own paper towel, and if you liked my dress you’d be wearing a similar one, not a hoodie and jeans.

4. I can’t hear a damn thing other than crappy music.
This one is self-explanatory.

3. Smoking is not cool.
Thanks to the recent re-opening of my gay club of choice, there’s now a hookah lounge. When I went for my birthday in January, it was downstairs so it didn’t bother me. When I went on Friday, people were smoking all over. I couldn’t breathe and even my allergy meds weren’t helping.

2. I don’t even get carded anymore.
It used to be exciting to go to clubs, flash my ID, and get the “Superstar” and “Over 21” wristbands, as well as the “21” written in Sharpie on my hand. Now I’m automatically branded as old enough to drink, and it’s a pain in the ass to have to scrub the Sharpie off the next morning.

I arrive by 11 so I don’t have to pay cover. By 12:30, after being on my feet and fake-dancing with teeny-boppers and freaking out at the prospect of seeing anyone who remotely looks like my students, the only thing I want to do is go home, take off my pounds of makeup, shower the smoke out of my hair, and go to sleep. I should’ve spent my Friday night reading, writing, or drinking wine with my friends and watching movies on Netflix. I’m too old for this staying-out-late crap.


Bonus reason: This is the only thing I get excited about at the club.


2013-01-26 08.20.32