My Almost Mullet

So Field-Based Training (FBT) for my Youth Development group is going to be in Cantarranas, which is supposedly very hot with water problems. The thought of washing all the shampoo out of my long hair via a bucket shower did not sound like a lot of fun. Also, having long hair in 80-90 degree heat was considerably less appealing. So on a whim, I decided to cut my hair today, the day before we leave for Cantarranas. My hair was about to the middle of my back, but I wanted to cut it to a little bit past my shoulders. Armed with photos I cut out of magazines of women with a little longer than shoulder-length and slightly layered hair, I ran up the street to Ashley’s Beauty Salon (the only beauty salon in town). I’m not sure why it’s called Ashley’s Beauty Salon. There’s no Ashley there and the girl who cuts hair looks younger than me, although she must be older because she has two kids.

I showed “Ashley” the photos and explained in my limited Spanish haircutting vocabulary what I wanted. Hair words like “layered” and “bangs” just do not usually come up in everyday conversations. She said “Cheque” (that means OK here). Then she began to cut my hair. I’m not sure why, but suddenly “Ashley” cut the front of my hair really crazy short. Perhaps she wasn’t wearing her glasses and couldn’t see the photos. Maybe she was talking on the phone at the time. Maybe she didn’t have very much haircutting experience. Or maybe she just didn’t like the haircuts I had picked out and decided to do her own. Perhaps it was a combination of all of the above.

It was definitely too late. A large chunk of hair fell to the ground. I tried not to freak out. I just smiled and braced myself for the worst. And the worst was what I got. After a torturous 20 minutes hair chopping session with my occasional non-offensive suggestions for next steps, I had a mullet.

And I mean a mullet in all senses of the word. I was a female Billy Ray Cyrus. My hair was about 3 inches long in the front and past my shoulders in the back with feather-like layers cascading down. I was mortified. I had two choices. Live with the Mullet. Or cut my hair really really short. I began to try to think of ways to fix a Mullet until my hair grew back out and nothing really came to mind. So I cut my hair very short.

“Ashley” seemed to be confused, as she had thought that a mullet was exactly what I wanted. (Evidently, it is rather stylish here in Honduras.) I’m usually not ultra-picky about my hair, but I felt like I had to do something in this situation. I felt bad because I kept telling her to cut my hair shorter and shorter in the back. 2 hours later, I must say that it looked cute. And it is certainly convenient when it comes to taking bucket showers. “Ashley,” wherever you are and whatever your real name is, I’d like to thank you.