Saturday, March 8, 2008
I woke up this morning and decided I wanted my hair lopped off. So my kind, brave husband, that CAN see in a straight line, cut it for me. I've never been particularly fond of going to the hair salon ... strange, I know. I'm really not good with idle chit chat but it always seems awkward to just sit there. I never really know what I want done with my hair and I always hate how it looks as I leave the salon. None of these make for an experience that I want to repeat very often. Every now and then (once a year or so) I decide that this is the time that is going to be like a make-over show. I will go into the salon and say "Make me beautiful" and out I will come, a swan with a glorious hair cut. The last time I did this, the stylist poked me in the eye with the scissors. (I mean literally, my contact lens came out of my eye.) Arlo thinks that as girly as I am, I should like going to a hair salon to primp (or whatever it is that girls do) every 6 weeks or so like other women. Maybe I'll become a grown up one of these days and become a regular at a salon. I'm sure that would help keep my expectations reasonable and probably give the stylist a fighting chance at helping me choose a style that I like.