On Friday it was time for my biennial hair cut. Yes, that's biennial as in every two years. I'd spend even less time in my life getting my hair cut, but at some point long hair just gets really, really irritating. Like when you try to turn your head to check your blind spot and you can't because your hair is trapped between you and the car seat. So in the interests of public safety, I had it chopped off.
To give an example of how long my hair was, they took off ten inches (the length needed to donate to Locks of Love) and I still have shoulder-length hair.
Every time I get my hair cut, I try to make it obvious from the start that I don't really care what they do as long as a) it's shorter afterward, and b) I'm not expected to spend any time on it in the morning. Yet every time I spend the whole twenty minutes getting asked whether I want layers, and if I want it shorter (or longer in the front), and whether I want it to frame my face, etc. I don't care. Really. I just don't care. Just stop slowing things down by asking all the questions and cut my hair however you want to.
What really makes me laugh, though, is that every time I get it cut, when it's really obvious that I haven't had it cut for over a year, the stylist recommends that I come back to get it trimmed in six weeks. I try not to laugh at them, but why would they think that's going to happen? In six weeks it will look exactly the same except a little longer. Why would I need to get it cut again?
Anyhow, now I just have to endure tomorrow when everyone must exclaim "You got your hair cut!" like it's some kind of major life event. (I can't really blame people for this -- I probably do the same thing. It's a way to cover up your surprise when you almost don't recognize someone.)
I think I should just start wearing a baseball cap everywhere.
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