I have a long history of bad haircuts, starting when I was about 8. My mother got tired of combing out tangles, so tossed me in the car, took me to some a hair-cut school, and had me shorn like a sheep. I walked in with long straight albino white-hair and walked out looking like a chia pet. Devastated, I was Sampson, or Sampsonette, and cried and threw the comb every morning as I tried to tame the cowlicks. Dippitydo just made the tufts stand up to windstorms.
I had a godmother who knitted me a pony-tail cap out of red yarn and I wore the damn thing until I was 10.
So I'm not a friend of high-end, mid-end, low-end salons. I've tried Beverly Hills, I've tried Sam's. No one ever gives me the hair I think I should have. And they'll snip and shape and pooffe and blow, and it just gets more and more hopeless in my mind. I want to tell them, I know you think you're the physicist of follicles, but please, just do the cut and let me get the hell out of here so I can stand under the shower and try to come to grips with what you've done. Quit playing with my hair because I just hate it more and more.
But two things I've learned: Go to a new place every time and ask for the owner to do the cut. And if your name is Karin, and there's an owner with the same name and spelling, go there. I really like Karin's in Sierra Madre. And I really like Karin. She thought I didn't want 6 inches off, so she took it off 2 inches at a time. She didn't have to be that delicate, but she's kind of an artist, and wanted to see if this was really the way to go. I think it was.
Anyway, I have no cowlicks. I'm not throwing the comb.