devil's haircut

I’ve always had a hate/hate relationship with my hair. When I was younger, I swear my mom would go through half a bottle of No More Tangles trying to get all the snarls out, and I broke many a comb and hairbrush trying to style it.

Then, in my twenties, I got the worst haircut of all time…like litigiously bad. When it finally grew out again, it was still a pain in the ass, but at least I could go out in public without wearing a baseball cap, and I was damn happy to have it back.

Anyway, my point is that I like to do as little as humanly possible with my hair. I wash it, I blow it dry, I brush it, the end. I have neither the time nor the inclination to do anything more than that. But it was starting to look a little mullety recently, and I realized it had been almost 6 months since I’d gotten a trim, so I reluctantly headed to Supercuts.

Moral of the story: when you’re nearsighted as hell, and the stylist holds up a hank of your hair and says “About this much off?”, put your fucking glasses back on to see exactly HOW much she’s going to lop, rather than just squinting and saying, “Yeah, looks good.”

I.

Look.

Like.

A.

Fucking.

Soccer.

Mom.

No offense to moms, or soccer moms, but this is the kind of haircut you’d see in Good Housekeeping with a caption reading “So simple…so easy…perfect for those days when you’re the designated carpool driver!”

Oh, well…like they say, the only difference between a bad haircut and a good one is three weeks.

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This weekend, assuming the weather is good, we’re going to a local autumn festival to scarf down mini-donuts, go on the hayless hayride, wander the corn maze, and pick out a pumpkin, and I can’t freakin' wait. Seriously, you wouldn’t believe how excited I am at the prospect.

Perhaps I have a touch of the soccer mom in me after all.