blogwaffe

I have what is, I believe, an insurmountable problem with barbers/stylists/salonistas/etc.: due to my horrible vision, I can never tell what they’re doing to my head until it’s too late. Not that I know what they should be doing, but it’s still a barrier I face everytime I go get my hair whacked – something I finally got around to doing yesterday.

I’ve been telling people I got into a Streetfight with Vidal Sassoon. And lost.
*FINISH HIM*

Everyone has in their mind a vanity center. I’d like to think mine is quite small and shrivelled and that I manage to keep its infrequent bilious excretions in check. Sometimes, though, my defenses are toppled. My free-spiritedness locks down, my open-mindedness closes, and my RATM like I-won’t-do-what-you-tell-me gets whipped. Even my enormous apathy mire falters on occassion and allows me to actually care about something. When this happens, my feeble willpower is simply not capable of setting aside such narcissistic thoughts as, “Does this haircut make me look like a woman… with a beard?”.
*FATALITY*

At this point, I just have let the “new look” grow on me and pray to all I hold dear that I never encounter a woman with the same hair-form. Currently, I’m particularly worried as Holly got her hair whacked the same day. And she was getting it cut short. Update to follow.