Saturday I got sick of my hair. It was long, getting caught in my bra hooks long. It was heavy and hanging there with no life to it at all. It got in the way during *ahem* intimate moments. (Nothing says sexy like, “Oww, get OFF of my hair!) Off I went to the salon. Well nothing so hoity or toity, I actually went to the local walk-in place. Hey, it’s not like I can make an appointment, I never know when the Big Guy is actually going to stay still long enough for me to go do something.
“What are we doing with your hair today?”
“I want it shoulder length, long layers on the sides, keep the bangs but trim them up.”
“Ooh, if I had your hair I would do this, that and the other thing.”
Here is where I make the mistake, “Okay, go ahead.”
Did you see it? My stupidity on parade?
The quality of the cut is good. The cut itself? Sucks. My mother of course loves it. But this is the woman who told me I had to cut my hair when I turned thirty. After 30 you apparently are not allowed to have long hair. The only criticism my mom has- she thinks it should be shorter. She thinks it should be above my ears. I think she needs to stop smoking peyote.
The big problem? It’s mullet-y. MULLET-Y! Billy Ray Cyrus envies my do. Short on top, short around the ears, barely skims my shoulders. Of course there is only a four inch wide piece in back that skims my shoulders because the rest is so damn short. I feel like Markie Post’s character on Night Court. Does anyone even remember Night Court?
I’ll be the flashback at my twenty year reunion because the last time this hair style was popular was in 1986!
Oh well. It grows back. Right?
And no, there will NOT be any pictures, don’t even ask.