I really dislike and abhor going to get haircuts. There is something nauseating about sitting in front of a mirror, staring at myself -- and what is it with that lighting? you know? the kind that makes you look like a corpse? -- while wrapped up to the chin in a black drape, and making forced conversation with someone who couldn't give two shits about me and about whom I couldn't give two shits either.
In spite of this horror, I did actually get a haircut today. I've been working up to it for several weeks, feeling the crispy ends of my hair and thinking "You really need to get a haircut. Soon."
It actually wasn't that bad. The hairdresser wasn't in the least bit creepy (unlike the guy I had last time, who seemed to get way too much enjoyment out of combing out my hair. Eeeew.) and as soon as she saw my turtle tattoo, we were off to the races chatting about turtles and frogs we had bought, known, loved, and lost.
Not to mention ex-husbands, but that is a story not worth getting into.
Anyway, I'm spending my time now feeling the ends of my hair with a satisfied smile. No longer crispy.
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