Seattle adventures, life, home, and coffee—in no particular order
The hairs have been cutten (that’s grammatically correct, right?) and damn, it feels good! I can’t stop touching it. And looking at myself in the mirror. And moving my head from side to side to feel my hair swing. It’s. So. Short. (For me, anyways.)
My stylist looked a little skeptical when I announced I was CUTTING IT OFF! She’s all, ‘You realize you’ll have to style your hair then, right? Like with a flat iron?’ Apparently when you make it a habit of stumbling into the salon with unruly locks they start to assume things.
After assuring her that I’d pull it together and do my hair for once, she thought for a minute, looked me in the eye and incredulously asked her final question: ‘You’re not going to cry or anything, are you?’
Me? Cry over a haircut? Um, never…
Ok, so there was that time in sixth grade when I wanted to grow my bangs out. My mom, who cut our hair from day one, had the bright idea to give my sister and me the dreaded Mid-Head Bangs. The kind that basically overtake your head and make you wonder who gave her a beautician’s license (er, just kidding, mom). The only way to get rid of that kind of monstrosity is to cut it all off and start over. The result? A tan little…boy? I cried, and my mom is still traumatized. So much so that anytime Christina or I request a cut, she inevitably shears off at least five inches less than we ask for.
Ok, so there was that other time in college when I asked Crystal to give me ultra-sexy, angled bangs. She agreed, busted out the Friskars, and snip! Somehow my bangs found themselves in a one-inch length, reverse [non-sexy] angle. I screamed all the way through the Quads and pounded down Jess’ door, begging her to FIX IT! PLEASE! Jess offered some reassuring words and pretended to make a few repairs.
I proceeded to pin my short forehead hairs (let’s be real, we can’t call those things bangs) back with my entire bobby pin collection for the next few weeks. I probably pouted and sulked around Crystal for that length of that time, too. Sorry for overreacting Crys?
But that’s not the point. The point is, I’m a big girl now, and big girls don’t cry. At least over their hair. Unless it’s really, really bad. Luckily for my stylist, me likey.
The coolest part about this hair ordeal is that my hair is going to singlehairedly save the Gulf. Well, sort of.
They’re collecting donations of hair and fur to make hair mats and sandbag-y-type things to soak up excess oil from the nasty BP spill. My ten-inch ponytail is going to do me proud. It’s pretty cool, actually, check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwQOD_Ir2vQ.
Next step: dusting off the flat iron and recreating the salon styling. Yikes!