I kinda had to do this. It was getting to be too much trouble to take care of. I let it grow out in the first place because I was too lazy to get it cut, so it only follows that I’d get it cut because I’m too lazy to take care of it properly.
I really had no idea it was so long. I mean, obviously I knew it was long but until I saw the photos my stylist took I didn’t realize just how long it had grown (and how much it made me look like the creepy bald guy in Rocky Horror). I was also pretty clueless about how long it had been since I stopped getting it cut, too. I searched through my camera roll to find a photo of myself with short hair to show to the stylist and had to scroll back more than two years! Honestly, I thought it had been maybe a year, year and a half tops.
The stylist was not sure at all I knew what I was getting myself into when I told her how short I wanted her to cut it and showed her the photos of me before I stopped getting it cut. I had to virtually sign a waiver and pinky swear that I would not hold it against her after she cut it all off. She started by whacking about six inches off just so she would have room to work, issuing little declarative statements like “it’s not going to look pretty,” which made me laugh and evil laugh. “I was just thinking,” I said, “that if I really wanted to be mean right now, I’d start blubbering ‘no, no, stop!'”
Best part of the night: she washed my hair with a special shampoo that apparently had spicy peppers in it — is there nothing they won’t turn into a mole these days? The conditioner she used after the wash was similarly spiked and kept my scalp tingling through the rest of the haircut.
The rest of the cut took about a half hour to forty-five minutes; altogether I was there about an hour and a half, and I have to say it was the best part of my day. I can see why My Darling B likes going there. I’ve already set a reminder in my calendar to go back next month for another wash and cut.