Hair. Long, short, in between, highlighted, dark, shot with gray.
No matter what stage it's in, or its current tone, it can make me very very happy or make me want to stab myself in the eyeball with a dull instrument. Maybe a butter knife.
The 'logic' goes something like this, on a bad day:
Hair, being its strong-willed self, decides to be both big AND in my face, which is a bad combo even on a good day, let alone one when the demigods of hormones have been partying in my bloodstream and emotions for a few hours...and I'm feeling crabby and fragile and mostly like no matter what damned stage my stupid 'do is in, I just want it to comply. On some level.
Which guarantees absolute chaos.
And makes me text Erika the Fierce and Wonderful stylist who is not afraid of either my hair's nor my moods, which means she is a keeper in the most fundamental sense of the word.
Erika knows to ignore said text, which flew at 6 p.m. after a long, hot day fighting with the stupid locks, a day which is culminating with dinner out and an Alison Kraus concert, so I may be bit more sensitive than usual because a girl wants to look her best at a concert, right?
Next morning, Erika responds to my 'Maybe we should just go pixie with it, Erika. Maybe we should just abandon hope of ever growing it more than a few inches long everywhere and just CUT IT OFF-ALL OF IT!' with a very calm, 'I'm sorry, but I'm really booked up this week. How is next Wednesday at 12:30, or Thursday at 3:00?'
Well shit.
Wednesday won't work, (dentist appointment already scheduled that day), and neither will Thursday (conflicts with a meeting).
I take a few deep breaths, and realize I maybe just need to calm the hell down for a little while and NOT do anything rash.
And then I IM my friend JL who is adept at talking me off of even the most precarious ledge, and ask for advice.
Her feedback was sound, solid, and involves some barrettes, maybe some Gypsy scarves or a headband or two as this most difficult stage passes, which we both know it will.
After many thanks to her (again) for steady advice, I text Erika back and we agree it's better to plan than react, and we decide I'll stick to my regularly scheduled haircut, though we will be adding a coloring this time.
Because no matter how much rationale we can collectively apply to my mid-length locks, the gray? Has to be tamed, period. I don't know who that old lady is looking out at me from the mirror, but I'm thinking she'll look pretty hot with some red lowlights.
Happy weekend!
Hugs,
Stevie
No matter what stage it's in, or its current tone, it can make me very very happy or make me want to stab myself in the eyeball with a dull instrument. Maybe a butter knife.
The 'logic' goes something like this, on a bad day:
Hair, being its strong-willed self, decides to be both big AND in my face, which is a bad combo even on a good day, let alone one when the demigods of hormones have been partying in my bloodstream and emotions for a few hours...and I'm feeling crabby and fragile and mostly like no matter what damned stage my stupid 'do is in, I just want it to comply. On some level.
Which guarantees absolute chaos.
And makes me text Erika the Fierce and Wonderful stylist who is not afraid of either my hair's nor my moods, which means she is a keeper in the most fundamental sense of the word.
Erika knows to ignore said text, which flew at 6 p.m. after a long, hot day fighting with the stupid locks, a day which is culminating with dinner out and an Alison Kraus concert, so I may be bit more sensitive than usual because a girl wants to look her best at a concert, right?
Next morning, Erika responds to my 'Maybe we should just go pixie with it, Erika. Maybe we should just abandon hope of ever growing it more than a few inches long everywhere and just CUT IT OFF-ALL OF IT!' with a very calm, 'I'm sorry, but I'm really booked up this week. How is next Wednesday at 12:30, or Thursday at 3:00?'
Well shit.
Wednesday won't work, (dentist appointment already scheduled that day), and neither will Thursday (conflicts with a meeting).
I take a few deep breaths, and realize I maybe just need to calm the hell down for a little while and NOT do anything rash.
And then I IM my friend JL who is adept at talking me off of even the most precarious ledge, and ask for advice.
Her feedback was sound, solid, and involves some barrettes, maybe some Gypsy scarves or a headband or two as this most difficult stage passes, which we both know it will.
After many thanks to her (again) for steady advice, I text Erika back and we agree it's better to plan than react, and we decide I'll stick to my regularly scheduled haircut, though we will be adding a coloring this time.
Because no matter how much rationale we can collectively apply to my mid-length locks, the gray? Has to be tamed, period. I don't know who that old lady is looking out at me from the mirror, but I'm thinking she'll look pretty hot with some red lowlights.
Happy weekend!
Hugs,
Stevie
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