Way Back When-esday: The Rachel

When: September 1994

I was entering the 8th grade as the world was entering a new trend in hairstyles: the Rachel.

Yes, those 6 now-familiar faces were debuting as the cast of Friends and it wasn't long before American women were running to their hairdressers, begging to have hair that looked just like Rachel Green's. In case you forgot what it looked like (ya, right! were you living under a rock? in a cave? Bhutan??), here is the a little reminder:

Ok, so that was 15 years ago and who cares? Well, apparently its making a comeback. Via my hair. However, this is an accidental comeback. I did not run to my hairdresser this morning, thinking the time change meant that we aslo warped to 1994. I just wanted a trim to get rid of about 6 months worth of split ends. I was good - I called yesterday and made an appointment, timed perfectly during a nap, right between feedings, so Grammy could watch the babies easily. I would be there and back in less than an hour. Perfect.

Well, not so much. My hair salon, if you can call it that, is super ghetto. I real hole-in-the-wall kind of place. Reminiscent of a crappy nail salon where no one speaks English. Which is fitting because no one does speak English at this place - not well, at least. When I called to "make an appointment" the guy didn't even take my name. Not a good sign. Also, the appointment was made for 10:15 or 10:20...ish. Not very reassuring. I get there, at 10:15 and the lights are out. Seriously??!! There is a note taped to the door in some kind of chicken scratch. I would have snapped a shot of it but, alas, my phone was dead. Here is what the note said:

sorry - we open late today. 12:00 - 6:00pm

Are you kidding me??!! What about the name-less, time-less appointment I made, huh? Don't you know that I have a very small window of oppourtunity? I must not have mentioned the fact that I have two 4-month olds at home. My bad. Guess I thought appointments were honored on their own merit, without some pity story behind them. Sheesh!

I decide that there is no way I'm going home without a haircut, even if I have to pay the girl at Dunkin Donuts to do it. Luckily, I did not get that desperate. As I'm looking around for some other, not-as-ghetto (and open!!) salon, some guys yells out at me from across the street, "Hey! Do you need your haircut?!" Ya, my hair is that bad you can tell from across a busy street on a cloudy, rainy day. Sigh.

I get inside this much better place (although still not that nice...) and Paul, a 6'4" gay man with a blonde beard and crew cut that reminds of Guile from Street Fighter, starts flipping my hair through his hands, talking faster than 14-year old girl on No-Doze, saying, "Oh ya, it's really bushy, thick hair, we can take care of that. Yup, just some layers here, freshen it up, you'll feel so much lighter, you're gonna look great" yadda, yadda, yadda. I tell him to do whatever the hell he wants. As long as it won't interfere with changing poopy diapers. He decides, unbeknownst to me, that the Rachel is the best hairstyle for a new mom and 15 minutes later, I'm back in 1994.

Oh well. At least my hair is clean.

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