Worst Haircut Ever

The stylist will see you now

All week, the "Today Show" is running an on-going segment about hair, and what we gals go through to make it look nice.  To this day, I still cringe when I think about the most harrowing haircut I ever received. My mom had heard about some big deal hairdresser who worked out of his house.  Movie stars made up most of his clientele. She was lucky to get me an appointment, she said. At 15, I wore my baby-fine brown hair like every other girl at school:  Long and parted in the middle.  But Mom had a new style in mind for me, one she kept to herself for the time being.

One foot into Ray’s tiny West Hollywood duplex and I knew I was in trouble. The first hint of danger:  Ray didn’t believe in mirrors. Why distract customers with their own reflection?  Mirrors interfered with his art.  He preferred the element of surprise.

Terrified, I sat down, wondering what sort of butchery awaited me.  Out came the scissors.  My heart beat faster and faster.  I could hardly breathe.  I heard a lot of snip… snip… snipping. I started to panic, as piles of hair formed around my ankles.  I looked at my mom.  She smiled, reassuringly.  She kept winking and nodding and giving me the OK sign.

At last, the torture ended.  My mother and Ray could hardly contain themselves.  Near-giddy, they walked me over to a mirror hidden in another room.  But I already knew something bad had happened. Where hair once graced my shoulders in long, stringy, split-end clumps, there was… nothing.

“Close your eyes, Carol,” Ray whispered, positioning me for the big reveal. “You’re going to love it, honey,” Mom promised.  I opened my eyes and went numb.  It was so much worse than I had feared.  “Oh… no…” I said.  “It’s… so…short.”  Ray looked strickened.  “I’ll die if you don’t like it.”  My mom put a hand on my shoulder.  “Honey, it looks great. Just give it some time.”  I squinted at her through tears, my upper lip trembling. 

We rode home in silence.  I ran upstairs to my room, stood in front of the mirror and blubbered at the sight of my new, unsolicited ’do.  Later, my mother came in and sat by me on the bed.  “You look so pretty with shorter hair, honey.”  I stared at the carpet.  “I think you upset Ray today,” she said. 

Huh? 

“You hurt his feelings," she said.  "I want you to call him and apologize.”  “Mom…” She handed me a piece of paper with his number.  “Tell him you really like your hair, and that it just took a little while to get used to it.”  “But I don’t like it.”  She got up and left the room.  I went downstairs to call Ray.  I dialed his number, praying he wasn’t home.  It was 1973, a blissful time in communications:  No call waiting. No answering machines.

“Hello?” said Ray, a wounded tone in his voice.  “Oh… uh…hi Ray… this is Carol? Starr?” A long, punishing pause. “Hi, Carol.”  “I really like my hair,” I said, with little conviction.  “It just took a while to get used to it.” “I am so relieved, you have no idea. I’ve been upset all afternoon.”  From upstairs, my mother called, “Tell him you’re sorry you upset him!”  “I’m… sorry I upset you,” I said.  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m so glad you called.” 

I never went back to Ray.  I never had another haircut without a mirror in front of me.  If someone's going to make me look ridiculous, I'd prefer to watch the disaster unfold.