Day 278
Well, once again, I am the recipient of a bad haircut.
And I only have one person to place all the blame onto … and that one person is myself.
No … I didn’t go to a pricey salon and waste a fistful of money having Claude or Rolf or Jorge try to make sense out of my baby chick fuzz hair.
And, no … I didn’t go to a discount uni-sex hair salon and get my thin, limp and lifeless tresses (which, by the way, can hardly be called – tresses) cut or shaped or trimmed.
What I do mean is that I – myself – took a pair of small, sharp scissors to my head well after midnight last night. Again. I am notoriously turning my bathroom into a make-shift chop-shop (not to be confused with an actual beauty parlor) in the wee hours of the morning.
And all I can say is … “Oops – I did it again!”
(And I mean that in the least Britney Spears way possible.)
Right after I snipped off whatever growth I’d accumulated from the last six months I thought, “Huh, cute. Not bad for a middle-of-the-night, do-it-yourself haircut. Good job, Lester.”
I was feeling pretty cocky when I tumbled into bed.
And then, this morning I woke up, looking like a whole mischief of rats (seriously, that is what a pack of rats is called) … descended onto my head and chewed like crazy while I was sleeping.
Sigh.
And, all I can say is … “Oops, I did it again!”
And I have no excuses. This is NOT my first ride on the haircut merry-go-round. I have been cutting my own hair for eons … or if not that long … at least a few decades. And, amazingly, (usually) there is no wine involved and it is done perfectly sober and willingly.
Oh, I’ve tried those fancy salons and the old lady beauty parlors and the uni-sex shops and I’ve come away with the same thing … a leaner wallet and a haircut that looks like that same group of rats found me in the night and chewed on the ends (and top and sides) of my head … taking away what they could as nesting material.
So, I’ve given up on having other people attempt to make something of these forlorn sprigs of wispy, baby-fine, thinning strands that I boldly call … hair.
In any case … after half a can of mousse and a good dousing of extra hold aerosol hair spray I emerged from the bathroom this morning looking, quite surprisingly, somewhat decent! Almost like I had a real haircut by someone who knew what they were doing!
And the actual cuteness lasted for about 20 minutes before assuming it’s real “chewed on by rats” look. But, hey – I’ll take the 20 minutes of quasi-decency as it’s better than nothing!
And so, the baby chick fur has been chopped into something that is now rather swingy, wispy and fringy and if anyone asks me the style I’m thinking of calling it a Punk Shag or a Pixie Bob.
Or maybe I’ll just say the style is called … Mischief.