Monday, June 28, 2010
Brought To You By The Letter Q
A few months ago, I cut several inches off my hair.
Many, many inches.
It was time. I figured if I hated it, it'll grow back. This was inconceivable just a few years ago. I spent most of my life with long hair, and suffered under the delusion that if I cut it, it might never grow again. Or I might die from lack of follicle. Crazy shit like that.
Six inches less later....and I loved it. It felt liberating. So at the next appointment, I had a few more inches knocked off.
I shouldn't have tempted fate.
My hairstylist/hairdresser/hairartist - whatever they're called these days, is great. Really. This is the only salon I've stayed with for more than two years, and I've been completely happy the entire time.
I decided to go with one of those neat angled bobs - short in the back, long in the front. The Anti-Mullet.
She cut, dried and straightened my hair. It looked great. Then she used the thinning shears. Who knows why - I thought it looked fine. Afterwards it just looked...wrong.
Stupidly, I figured I needed to style it myself, and it would be fine. Don't we ladies always do that? We convince ourselves it'll be fine once we “fix it” at home.
The full impact didn't hit til I tried to do my hair the next day. Somehow, the angle was lost, and it looked like a standard, straight bob, except for two looooong chunks on either side of my face. They swooped out from my head like tentacles.
From the side, I looked like the letter Q.
I went back in for an emergency appointment, with the excuse I was apparently too hair-challenged to style it like that everyday, and asked if she could just even it up. Which, of course, the only way to fix that is to remove more hair.
So yeah. It's short. It's also pretty. I'm mature enough to handle the new look and still feel damn good about myself.
Still, I think the experiment is over.
It'll grow back.