Well, unlike a significant fraction of homo sapiens with XX chromosomes, I do not particularly enjoy my visit to beauty parlours and salons. Any place covered with mirrors and high voltage bulbs, with near-to-perfect women stuttering around with scissors and brushes in their hands, doesn’t really sound like my kind of place.
Plus they have this habit of telling me things about me I don’t want to know. Like why do I need to know my right eye brow has more hair than the left one. I don’t right?
Hair has always been a touchy topic for me. Even as a kid. You see, the genetic endowment by my dad’s super awesome curly hair was a little delayed in being bestowed upon me. I still make do with wavey, but not complaining.
Anyways, so a month to my birthday, that’s enough for retouching hair colour and 3 months to graduation. Enough for my hair to grow out. With these calculations in place, I decided. It’s time to have a haircut, which looks like a haircut. I discovered, your determination decreases exponentially as you approach “the” chair.
A few scissors snaps later, I gave in. If nothing, I get to get away with this by putting it on Instagram with the caption. A woman who cuts her hair, is about to change her life. Thank you Coco Chanel , but the only change I have thought about it in my life is using a herbal toothpaste at night.
It didn’t turn out that bad. Or maybe it’s all the blow-drying working. Good that I am writing this blog now. Two days later this blog might have been just one word. Meh.
Until next time,