It sneaks on you. There you are brushing out your tresses, thinking you look smashing, and could give any of them fake extension types a run for their hairdressers when you realise, you’ve been brushing for the better part of 15 minutes and your hair doesnt look any more settled than it did when you began the process.
Okay, okay, I could pretend this is intentional and I like the bed head look, and this is the secret of my appeal. But seriously though, I would like to see the mane tamed. And not wild like women who run with the wolves. And like a sleek crop, fitting stylishly to my skull. Moving when I move. Not flying off in random directions whereever the wind decides to take it, making unsuspecting people gasp and shriek when they open the door to me.
Therefore, an appointment is being taken at nearest regular salon, for a crop. I do know, that no matter what the stylist does, I will look the way I always do after a haircut, that my kind of hair doesnt conform to cuts, but waves languidly to its own music. I am gathering up tattered courage to go chin length before my chin actually multiplies into two. Whadya know, I just might go get it.