It’s officially summer when I have a sudden need to get a haircut thisverysecond.
I was cooking in the kitchen yesterday afternoon, and became so annoyed at my hair sticking to my sweaty neck (pretty picture, I know), I had the biggest impulse to cut my hair. So in the middle of simmering my chili, I called out to Steve, “Hey, I’ll be right back…watch the pot for me!” I ran across the street to my regular hair place, the classic Los Angeles kind run by a bunch of women who smell like cigarette smoke and watch Telemundo nonstop. “Just chop it off,” are dangerous words to say to the hairdresser. Most moderately sane women at least think about it for a while, determine what hair styles match their facial structure, do research online, and then find a picture to show the barber. Not me. I live on the edge. At least when it comes to my hair. I gave the go ahead to the woman, and fifteen minutes later, I had a haircut that I was quite pleased with.
I have a tiny bit of haircut remorse, but it’ll go away in a few days as I get used to it. At least I didn’t take the shears to my head myself. I learned that lesson in college. Yikes.