Follicular Trauma

Well, my haircut was so traumatic that I had to eat an ice cream sandwich. And then I remembered (my mom reminded me) that every haircut I get is traumatic because I so thoroughly hate my hair. I always think "Maybe this will be the time she'll spin me around to look in the mirror and I will look smart, sexy, professional, confident, prompt..." I suppose that is a lot to expect of a haircut. But a girl can hope.

But sadly, it never is. Even poor Michele, my stylist, looked defeated. She was was trying to stay positive and actually said "So you just keep scrunching like this and it will look like....a big frizzy mess. Ok, let's try something else." So she then tries using a round brush with the blow dryer. And this is how I know my hair is hopeless: It actually attempted Seppuku mid-style, by leaping into the vent of the hair dryer. Michele and another stylist had to unwind my hair from the fan.

It wasn't Michele's fault. I was a difficult canvas to work with. I love the color and we'll see what happens tomorrow when I wash it and attempt some scrunching with wave-boosting mouse. At the very least, I tried something completely new and I did get to have a glass of wine at the salon and hang out with all the rich cougars in Greenville. That was pretty fun.

But now I know for sure, I can go to Supercuts and pay $12 bucks for a haircut I will love/hate just as much.