As I write this, I look like a chia pet that has been caught in a wind tunnel. I feel like putting a pillowcase over my head to avoid all scrutiny. It’s my own fault, really. Never go to a hairdresser and say that you just want “something different” and that you “trust their judgment”.
I can’t really blame him. He’s done a great job in times past, and it looked good enough when I left the salon. But I’m a wash and wear kind of person. I’m not going to blow dry or curl or straighten or use a variety of hair products. I’d rather be out living life than standing in front of a mirror, primping.
Then, too, my hair has a mind of its own. Like me, it refuses to behave. Like me, it marches to the beat of a different drummer. It will not, absolutely will not be tamed.
And because of that, I now look in the mirror and see the same hairdo I sported in my high school yearbook photo. It was excruciating then. Now imagine adding 35 years and 75 pounds into the mix, and you feel my pain.
All is not lost, though. As a friend of mine says, “The only difference between a good haircut and a bad one is two weeks.” I’ve never looked forward to mid-May this much in my entire life.