The Crappy Poet

I'm a twenty-something edging past newlywed and new dog owner. I run, write, I work. What else is there besides the struggle to overcome all of that and make something of myself...


Victim of Hair Terrorism

My hair is finally growing out from a heinous episode in December of what only can be described as hair terrorism. I was violated. Bad. I walked out with bangs above my eyebrows cut in an off cneter oval shape. I had layers on one side and none on the other. The sides were thin and wispy, while the back was layered. It was total disaster that caused me to burst into tears the moment I got int he car, and yet still tip the girl $10 (too much for even a good cut usually) because she was a single mom and it was (hello!) December. Christmas time. So I really hope the cute little darling got her play make-up mirror set because I sure as hell paid for it with my pride.

I look a little less like the lead singer of the Pretenders now, but not by much. I still hate the bangs. But I thought I had the new stylist haircut thing all figured out. I went in with my usual do. I had a picture of what I wanted, as well as pictures of several other styles I liked, so that she could get a sense of my taste. I told her the about the thickness, body, and texture of my hair. Nothing seemed to help. I am now thinking I am going to have to have my haircut again, as happens eventually in the usual course of events. But now I am scared. Dentist visit scared. The clip of scissors makes me nervous. I sweat when I see thinning shears. Hair mags make me tear up. And yet I never thought myself wrapped up in appearance, until I got the haircut from hell. I mean, if a bad haircut can make me cry for days, what happens when I really start to age? I would never succumb to surgery, and I know that because if I was the type, I would have already had my boobs done by now (see, Hello, My Name is 32B). Because aging is so gradual, will it not affect me in the same way? I hope not. Because hell hath no fury like a bad haircut.


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