Haidressers = Death

I went into the hairdresser today with high hopes and a few simple words. "Just a tiny trim off the length - I'm trying to grow it, oh and just trim my fringe too, please."

I thought that meant "Just a tiny trim off the length - I'm trying to grow it, oh and just trim my fringe too, please."

Apparently what it actually meant was "Hack at my hair in large chunks, giving me Rachel-style bangs around my face and chopping at least 2 inches of length off the back and 5 inches around my face. And then beat me with a stick."

My hair is the one part of me that I generally like. I am getting much better at NOT tying it back everyday and actually enjoying having it long again. I like to hide behind it, should the need arise. And I like being able to do different things with it, since it was all nice and long. Geez. Getting a fringe cut in was the biggest decision I've made to it in years.

And now? I have short hair. No, it's not up to my ears or anything and it's not cut like a muppet, but it's SHORT. Shorter than it was. Styled. I now have layers going all around my face that I DO. NOT. WANT. (or have time to style because I? Am lazy. And liked it that way.)

I may possibly have cried when I left the salon and really looked at it. I may be sitting here now wondering how many months (or years?) it will take these short front layers to grow back into my normal hair length. And as for the "growing it out" part? Well, I'm back at around 2004, right now. And pretty unhappy.

My short and ugly and did I mention short hair would like to strangle a certain hairdresser right about now. Wahhhh.

So yes, I'm back to my whinging and cynical self apparently - but
surely having my pretty hair slaughtered means I can get away with that?

Let's all just look at some shoes and take deep breaths.