I got a haircut on Monday during a frantic evening trip to Lincoln. I composed Ballad of the Strip-Mall Haircut in the truck as I searched for a ‘walk-ins welcome’ place. (It was a real tear-jerker – better than Dirty Busted Shards.)
Hair Masters let me down with their ‘nothing available tonight’, but Cost Cutters was solid for me. A big dude with guitars tattooed all over his arms made my hair shorter. Not any better-looking, just shorter.
I asked him about what can change hair from straight to wavy, and he went into a long snooze-fest, through which I napped a little, but basically, I was either pregnant or went through chemotherapy three months ago (which I don’t remember, but hey – I’ve been kinda tired), or I’ve been leaning my head against my hand 24/7 (also likely). I pointed out the errant wave, and he said, “Oh. Yeah, you’re gonna want to try and flat-iron that out.” Thanks, guitar arms.
I don’t know. I took a picture of it this morning, but I really need to have the same pose each time. Stupid picture taking.