At Least I Didn't Cry This Time

For months now, I've wanted to do something different with my hair. Drastic. But not too drastic, because, you know, deep down I'm a wuss. I've never quite been able to forget those many, many times I would come back from the hair dresser in AGONIZING TEARS because there is nothing so traumatic as feeling ugly when you're 16.

So I'm sitting in the salon, telling Sophie that I want something "new, fun, fresh, light, different". She starts flipping through a magazine and says "how about this cut?" Well, the model looked great of course, so I said Sure! and out came the scissors and off went my glasses.

Now, mind you, I'm blind when I don't wear my glasses--and you can't wear glasses when you're getting a haircut. So she's cutting, and I'm squinting through a curtain of bangs at the blurry new vision of me in the mirror. Everything looks fine as far as I can tell. It's short, but not too short... and I can tell my bangs will look different.

Then Sophie applies roughly a bucket of mousse to my hair and starts in with the blow dryer. After about fifteen minutes, she swivels me around to face the mirror and says "Ta da!" (Okay, she didn't really say that, but she may as well have). I smile because all I can see is what looks to be like an impressionistic painting of me. I reach for my glasses, and ...

Uh-oh. Can anyone say 1995? I am just too young to have BIG HAIR. I pouted all the way back to the car, amidst scoffing stares of passers-by (how do you know they weren't scoffing or staring? You weren't there...). I walked in the house and warned Max that it was disastrous. He managed to make me feel a little better about it. Between his tact and my hairbrush, I was able to tame my new giant 90's hairdo into something hopefully a bit more presentable:


You will all just have to take my word on how bad it was before I got home!!