Hairspray

I don't go to a professional barber anymore. At this point in my life, I have better places to spend my money. I'm sure the editors of Details magazine would throw a well-polished Gucci shoe at my face (what, Gucci doesn't make shoes?) having said that, since it's all in the hair.

I was growing it out. Trying. Very hard. But my patience never lasts because my hair is very wavy, but closer to my neckline it is curly, a very coarse curly. Dare I say, almost pubey. But not knatty. Or glossy.

Oh. My. God. I'll. Stop. There.

So, I decided to have Steph trim it up. I gave her complete trust, which is a monumental step, because I don't just trust anybody with my hair. I sat down in the chair outside and then we started acting like the latter part of "What Not To Wear" on TLC when the women meet up with...

...Nick Arrojo, and he gives them all "mom" hair cuts. Steph took the scissors to my hair and cut off most of the curls. I kept the top mostly long and kept my bangs, so when I wear it, it's almost on the verge of punk rocker, but not quite.

The next day, most people didn't say much, or seem to notice, that is, except for my sixth graders. They come trodding in and asked, "did you get a hair cut?" and one girl looked at me and shouted, "I hate it!"