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Iron and sulphur
Jun. 6th, 2005 04:00 pmA friend of mine pointed out recently that a good haircut can go a long way toward improving one's mood. This is definitely true; and the reverse is true, too: a bad haircut can spoil your day, your week.
Witness: this morning I woke up and jumped out of bed, happily ready to go pick up my dog, whom I haven't seen for the better part of a couple of weeks and who's been boarded for all that time, and I hate boarding Flannery, who is old and rickety and deserves better from me. But first, I wanted to get a haircut. I wanted to get one last week, but never had a chance to, in all the upset and the incessant driving, and I was determined to get one before the ends turned really blonde, as they are wont to do when my hair gets long, and I looked like a total ass. So a haircut.
And an hour later, I looked like an ass anyway: an "ear-length" bob an inch too short, the slight layering I wanted to soften the bottom shorter than that, the back shaved--shaved, I say--almost up to the crown of my head. WHAT THE FUCK. And I am bad at blow-drying my hair, but she was worse; I look like a five year old girl whose mother's cut her hair after she's done a little cutting herself. I was so furious when I left that I could barely be civil.
I am still furious. I was furious when it was revealed that he vet's office did not bathe Flannery. I was furious when the mail wasn't delivered by noon. I was furious when I remembered that I have some paperwork to finish before I go back to work tomorrow morning. I am furious now, for no good reason, just fuming. And it's been hours since I looked in a mirror--I can hardly bear to do it, I admit--but I know that if I were to do it now, I would feel a fresh surge of fury. A mighty strong one.
Maybe my hair will look better once I've washed it and made some effort to style it myself; sometimes bad haircuts do; and my mood will probably improve then. Also, I'm sure the events of the past week are wearing me down, and that my poor hairdresser is is the object of my little displacement exercises. But that doesn't change the fact that it's a bad haircut, goddamn it, and I'm afraid, very much afraid, that if my hair doesn't look any better by tomorrow morning when I leave for work, I am going to be tempted just to drive back to The Wonderful World of Hair or whatever the salon's name is and kill me a hairdresser.
I'm just saying, is all.
Witness: this morning I woke up and jumped out of bed, happily ready to go pick up my dog, whom I haven't seen for the better part of a couple of weeks and who's been boarded for all that time, and I hate boarding Flannery, who is old and rickety and deserves better from me. But first, I wanted to get a haircut. I wanted to get one last week, but never had a chance to, in all the upset and the incessant driving, and I was determined to get one before the ends turned really blonde, as they are wont to do when my hair gets long, and I looked like a total ass. So a haircut.
And an hour later, I looked like an ass anyway: an "ear-length" bob an inch too short, the slight layering I wanted to soften the bottom shorter than that, the back shaved--shaved, I say--almost up to the crown of my head. WHAT THE FUCK. And I am bad at blow-drying my hair, but she was worse; I look like a five year old girl whose mother's cut her hair after she's done a little cutting herself. I was so furious when I left that I could barely be civil.
I am still furious. I was furious when it was revealed that he vet's office did not bathe Flannery. I was furious when the mail wasn't delivered by noon. I was furious when I remembered that I have some paperwork to finish before I go back to work tomorrow morning. I am furious now, for no good reason, just fuming. And it's been hours since I looked in a mirror--I can hardly bear to do it, I admit--but I know that if I were to do it now, I would feel a fresh surge of fury. A mighty strong one.
Maybe my hair will look better once I've washed it and made some effort to style it myself; sometimes bad haircuts do; and my mood will probably improve then. Also, I'm sure the events of the past week are wearing me down, and that my poor hairdresser is is the object of my little displacement exercises. But that doesn't change the fact that it's a bad haircut, goddamn it, and I'm afraid, very much afraid, that if my hair doesn't look any better by tomorrow morning when I leave for work, I am going to be tempted just to drive back to The Wonderful World of Hair or whatever the salon's name is and kill me a hairdresser.
I'm just saying, is all.
