I got my haircut tonight. It only served to solidify my opinion that one of the best things in this world is having one’s hair brushed. Also, at the place I go, they do a little scalp massage thing, which rocks.
Tonight is interesting, you see, because I have weird hair. It’s strange. It doesn’t do what I tell it to do. It’s curly but not curly enough that I can just put gel in it and go. But it definitely is not straight. I get the best results if I wash it at night and sleep on it because then the curls don’t get frizzy and then I don’t have to both wash and dry it in the mornings. (I’m not a morning person. Ask the Boy. Or the Best Friend. It’s best if I don’t leave important things for the morning tines or they probably won’t get done.) Anyway, weird hair. No one understands my pain. Emo, emo, emo. The past few months, I’ve stopped brushing it, hoping to encourage the curl so that I don’t land somewhere in those between stages and it usually works, and I’m usually satisfied with the level of disheveledness, much to my mother’s chagrin.
For a while, I’ve been wanting to get that haircut. You know the one I’m talking about, that Jenny Lewis with the bangs and the choppy layers. And I think I’ve been trying to explain this to my hairdresser every time I’ve gone in but always come out with something different (no big, it’s just hair.) But today, I bit that bullet, you know the one, telling you that you’re eloquent and articulate and should be able to describe to the hair dresser exactly what you want bullet, and took a picture in.
Right now, it’s a little too salon perfect, you know, when they blow dry it and curl and it put a ton of product in it so it’s glossy and wayyy too slippery so it’s impossible to try and restyle? Well, I’m still going to play with it a bit, but here are the bangs. Wachoo fink?
I’m off to write the last paper of my undergraduate career. And by “off” I mean I need to close the interweb off so that I can write.