I look ridiculous right now.
Last night I got a haircut.
I dislike doing this for several reasons: 1) I hate small talk. 2) All hair stylists want to talk about is their boyfriend or your boyfriend. I thought that by going to a salon in the dregs of Wicker Park, where my stylist was studded with enough piercings and tattoos to make Motley Crue say, “Whoa girl. Settle,” that I could avoid this but it was still the first question out of her mouth. REVELATION: All hair stylists are the same, no matter how much Manic Panic is in the room. 3) I hate my hair.
She cut it, it looked cute and it was late enough last night that I thought I could avoid a shower this morning and be ok at work the next day. I was erroneous. By 7am, my hair (a mere TWELVE HOURS LATER) was starting to show signs of greasy overtones.
I thought I could solve this by dumping baby powder on it. This worked well in the past. I ran out the door to work, whistling on my way.
Got to work. I then looked at my reflection in the mirror of the office bathroom and thought, “I was a bit overzealous.” The top of my head was gray. Like I had just walked out of one of those paintings in The Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World. Attractive. I doused it with water. This made it stringy again. And still gray.
Only I could ruin a haircut at this magnitude. This is why, in case you were wondering, women’s magazines are still in circulation. The next time you wonder, “Who needs a monthly article on ‘jeans that fit every body type’ EVERY MONTH, INSTYLE?” only need to conjure up an image of me with a white head and a wet paper towel, frantically trying to pull myself out of a vanity hole that most girls have known to avoid since the 10th grade.
Entry filed under: Random Bits.