I got my hair cut yesterday.
For nearly a year, since the second time I went to him, my hairdresser has been begging me to go very, very, very short, just like every single one of my stylists before him. They can’t help themselves: I have straight, fine hair, a round head and rarely a very clear idea of what I want my hair to look like. The urge to to chop it all off is too much for them, and at some point in our relationship, I usually relent.
Yesterday seemed as good a time as any to go very, very, very short again. It’s sort of an obligatory step in the post-break-up recovery, anyway, n’est-ce pas?
Like wearing a sign on my head that reads: I Am Moving On.
Except, in my case, the sign reads: I Am Going Back.
The hairstyle looked oddly familiar, but I didn’t give it much thought it until this afternoon, when I caught my reflection in the mirror and realized, with a laugh, that I look almost exactly like I did in college, minus the nose ring.
As a special bonus, you also get to see my BATHROOM. Real classy. (It STILL has the plastic blue toilet seat by the way. Ha ha! My kids really like it.)