There's some language barrier, I'm certain of it, when I go to get my hair cut and it doesn't matter if I'm paying $13 at Supercuts, or $40 to a woman named Teri who works at the mall and has a reputation of knowing and executing the exact cut you ask for. I will always hear, "Oh, you can't have long hair with short layers" or "Whaaaat? I don't know what you mean. So you want your hair short, right? No, long?"
Side note: Am I the only one who cries at the thought of spending $40 on your hair?
The past two times I've had someone else cut my hair, I ended up wearing it for a day to see if I'll get used to it, only to end up cutting it myself until it finally looks how I want. So why in heavens name am I paying someone?
I want long hair, with short layers. I need the short layers as Momma is getting old and showing her age and dang it, hair that is lying flat against my head because it's too heavy to lift with product (read: I refuse to tease my hair) will add all the wrong drama to my face. But I want length too. I can't do short hair. Never have been able to. Every time I cut my hair short I looked and felt ugly, to which I'd grow it out, see a friend with an incredibly adorable bob, cut my hair again, hate it, grow it out again, watch The Real World on MTV, copy a main character's haircut (truth), hate my life, wear a hat for six months and vow to never, ever again have my hair that short, even at the ripe age of 80 with great, great grandkids yanking on it.
So I've been cutting my hair. And I've been very careful in how I cut it.
Until the other day.
That darn other day.
Time machine, anyone?
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