I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror this evening and became increasingly annoyed with how scraggly and splitendy my lovely, long hair had become. So I grabbed a pair of scissors without really thinking and cut. my. hair. My hair. My long, grown out, fun hair that I've just figured out how to style all nice like.
Because how hard could just a little trim be? Zach trims his hair all the time, its nice and easy (never mind that his trimmers have nice little guards to keep everything even.) It was only supposed to be an inch...maybe two. Yah, not so much.
Try four to five inches. It was a hair massacre. It went reasonably well at first, but all it took was one little misjudgement leading to one accidentally huge hack and all was lost.
I had Zach even it out, as I did a really crappy job. Why I didn't think to ask him to take just a little off, I'll never know. I suppose the not thinking had something to do with it. It looks...ok. Maybe. If you squint. Its not layered or charmingly styled. Its just kind of there, this flat thing slumping a little under my shoulders. (Ok, its bad enough to make me cry a little. I just miss my hair.)
It's not necessarily all bad. (or so I'm trying to convince myself) It did desperately need a trim, and I'm sure I'll get used to it and hair grows and blah blah blah. I just want my hair back, now please. I promise if you come back right away, I'll take good care of you. Nice conditioners and other fancy things. I'll even do what I'm supposed to and plunk down the cash when you need a little taken off. Please? Pretty Please?
(Maybe I'll post a picture latter when I'm less upset. Right now I seem incapable of taking one in which I don't look like a disgruntled Yeti or a mangled poodle.)
If you look like a disgruntled yeti, no one will mess with you. It could be the start of something amazing, scary people and howling at them, maybe even tearing them limb form limb on occasion. I say embrace it.
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