In Which I Never Mention My Computer Or How Much I Miss It
November 29, 2005
Saturday morning I went and got my hair cut and colored and my eyebrows, finally having recovered from the unfortunate plucking incident, waxed.
I used to go to a she-she sort of hair salon and spend a ton of money. The hair always turned out looking great, but the atmosphere left something to be desired. The hairstylists were so snooty that they seemed intent on making you feel like crap about yourself.
Now I go to a stereotypical small town hair place that mainly seems to cater to the geriatric set who come in for their weekly wash and set. It makes me slightly nervous, but so far I have had good luck and it is nice to be able to get a Saturday morning appointment with only a one week notice. Planning ahead is not my strong point.
This time I decided to get some bangs. I had bangs in some form most of my life, but a few years ago grew them out. The growing out process was long and painfully ugly and I swore I would never cut them again. But I guess like the pain of childbirth, the memory fades.
I was worried that a)I’d end up looking like Miss Piggy with tiny bangs and a round fat face, b) I’d end up looking the little Dutch boy with short bangs and a round fat face, c) I’d totally regret it since it took many many hellacious months to grow them out in the first place. But I put my fears aside and let her cut some bangs.
I came home .
“Wow, your new hairstyle makes you look ten years younger.”
“Seriously? You think so?”
“Yes. I really do think so.”
The kids all came over and they agreed that I looked much better, which is always a double edged sword because you come to the painful realization that you looked like crap for a few years there.
“So honey, how old do you think I look now? Be honest.”
“I’d have to say twenty-eight.”
“So… what you are saying is that before I got my haircut this morning I looked OLDER than I actually am?”
“Did I say twenty-eight? I meant eight. Nine, tops.”
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