I am very sensitive about my new haircut. (This is an understatement. I look like “Coach Beast” from Glee but more butch. It’s unfortunate.)
It’s shorter than it’s been in years and I keep tugging on the ends in a vain attempt to make it grow faster (hey, it worked on Hair Salon Barbie!) but alas, I’m stuck with it. The worst part? I leave for the UK and Ireland, a trip I’ve been planning since I was ten, in two weeks. Perhaps it’s time to invest in hats? Or just make sure every picture of me on the trip is taken from the neck down?
To be honest, I’m blaming this tragic doo’ on my dear old Dad. This one is on you, old man.
My father has spent the last few years trying to convince me to get a pixie cut (I didn’t). He doesn’t’ seem to understand that I have what hair dressers like to call “fine” hair. (The truth? I have the hair of a balding man. It’s pretty sexy.) Now I’m stuck with a thin version of the Velma Bob (from Chicago, for those of you who are uncultured not a fan of musicals).
Still, I suppose ugliness builds character.
Authors Note: I was going to write a longer, more interesting post about this tragedy, including a recap of yesterday’s hairstyle related bus incident, but the truth is the pain is still too fresh. Perhaps in the future I can look back at these days, not with fondness, but at least with humour. Maybe one day lady baldness will be in? Until then, I’ll be the one in the shadows wearing the ill-fitting hat and tugging frantically at my fringe.