fury

All right. So. Bad haircuts. We've all had them, we've all wept, screamed, had to go home and get the dog grooming scissors to manage the damage. And yet, we keep trying. I tipped her, oh yes, because she had to take a break from this two hour tortuous debacle to weep. I was strong, I waited until I was out in the car. At least I can find some satisfaction in the fact that she had as miserable a time as I did. Sigh. Scream. Pull my hair out. Oh well. I will be wearing makeup--lots, until this mess grows long enough for me to recruit someone more capable of communication. Seriously. No ability to hear, listen, integrate understanding from her perspective to mine. Like going to a stylist who makes everyone look like them. What is the point!?!? Anger. Yeah. Besides which, it was such an easy haircut that I wanted. Simple. Exactly like the one I had, only trimmed up. Seriously. She had it all sleek and bobbish, like I should wear an executive suit and sunglasses, hop in my BMW and have lunch with some nasty catty women. Not me. At all. So I turn around and look at the woman beside me who is raving about how much she adores her hair. Guess what? Same exact haircut as the one I didn't want. No one accused her of originality. Or artistic sensibilities. Or... exhale. It's all good.