hair-oics

Got my hair trimmed this weekend.     

PLEASE ALERT THE MEDIA.

And before Anderson Cooper breaks the riveting story on CNN tomorrow, I’m gonna give y’all the inside scoop.  My life has become an ongoing, circular struggle to be stoicly patient as my hair proceeds to lengthen in a natural fashion versus having to make an emergency visit with my stylist because I’ve taken shears to my own hair.  With somewhat less than stellar results.

Hard to believe, I KNOW.  After all those years I spent in cosmetology school, studying my guts out?  All for naught.

AHEM.

In my defense, I find it unfathomable that I carry the singular distinction of being the one and only woman on the planet that gets frustrated with her hair and decides to do a little, shall we say, self improvement outside the confines of a professional salon.  The definition of ‘improvement’, of course, being measured on a rather slippery scale.

I REFUSE TO CARRY THIS BURDEN ALONE, LADIES.

But.  I generally have issues with The Bangs.  Having super thick hair with a wee bit o’wave, the bangs are generally the first to get a bit unruly.  A little thick, a little chunky. 

AND A WHOLE LOT ANNOYING.

Being a Get ‘Er Done Kinda Gal, it would be completely out of character for me not to take some sort of action to set things to right.  Yes, I am well aware my first line of defense should be to pick up the phone and make a hair appointment.  But often said Hair Dilema occurs at 6:30 am during the course of getting ready for work.   And really, who can I call at that hour of dawn for a Little Bit O’Help?  

Wow.

That sounded awfully defensive, didn’t it?  My apologies for Snarky Comment to Cover Embarrassment. 

Sadly with a wealth of experience in Bad Home Hair Trimming y’all would think I would have a better handle on such impulsivity.  But I don’t.  And I can’t remember a single time when I would have won an award for my scissoring efforts.  Oh sure, the first day it looks okay.  The next morning … oddly not so much.  Which then requires me to trim a little more.  And so on.  Umm. 

AND SO ON AGAIN.

Now. You’re talking about a woman who grew up with the 1970’s pixie haircuts.   Pixie haircuts are about as short as you can get without being regarded as a boy. I recall wearing alot of culottes and dresses during my childhood, whether it had anything to do with warding off mistaken identity or not, I can’t recall.  However, I am pleased to report that never once as a young girl did I ever take scissors to my hair because of unruly bangs. 

NOT ONCE.

I think my mom was onto Something Big there.

Ultimately after my Experiments in the Realm of Things I Know Nothing About I have to face my stylist.  Sometimes I go to a different stylist.

JUST BECAUSE IT’S WAY TOO PAINFUL TO SEE THE PUZZLEMENT
ON HER FACE AS SHE EXAMINES MY HAIR. 

Ya’ll think I’m kidding?

I can tell the poor girl is thinking, ‘OH MY GOODNESS, DID I DO THIS?!  Did I really charge her?!’  Sometimes I pretend like my hair naturally grew out all weird and terribly uneven from the time I saw her last.  ‘Genetics, Allison.  My great-grandmother had the same issues. She was lucky she wore bonnets.’  The more solemn you are when you say this, I think the more believable it makes it.

The bright side to my foibles is that when I leave the salon with a fashionable haircut, it must make my stylist feel like a Super Hero. 

Saving me from myself … one haircut at a time.

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