It was a scarring experience.
Here's some backstory: I've been really emo lately. Like I'll start crying because one of my shoelaces is shorter than the other. It's either because I'm tapering off anti-depressants or I switched my birth control. Or both. Who the fuck knows? Anyway, I'm a mess. Also, I have short hair. I chopped it all off before my senior year of high school, then grew it out after my freshman year of college, then cut it all off again when I spent a semester in San Francisco. I grew it out pretty long before I went to California too:
Which is nice, because then I let it grow out for like two months before I get it cut again, so I can still rock it when I'm technically all shaggy, like this:
So I'm looking all shaggly, but it's a bummer because the Amazing Heather who used to cut my hair moved to Ann Arbor to be the queen of a coffee conglomerate. I decide to try another little local salon, and it turns out I can get a cut there for $25 if I let a trainee do it. I'm a risk taker, so I say okay. By now you can totally see where this is going, but I'm going to tell you anyway... maybe you'll be surprised.
So I go to the salon to get the cut, and everything's alright. The place has nice atmosphere and the stylist is sweet, and she complemented my looks. She was really apprehensive about cutting too much off though. I had to literally be all, "Look. This is not my first time at the rodeo. I've had it like an inch long. Just go for it. I won't cry." I was so happy that I could get her to actually do some cutting that I didn't really pay attention to how she was cutting. But, it looked cute after she styled it and so I ponied up $25 plus tip and went to the gym.
I come home from working out and hop in the shower. My hair feels a little weird when I'm washing it, but I pay no mind and continue with my beauty regimine. Only when I start to blow dry my locks do I realize. She has given me some kind of mom-pseudo-punk shit-do. Like this:
your show and all, but your hair is narsty.)
I realize that I look like ass and I have a total breakdown. I attempt to dry my hair without looking in the mirror, I am so horrified. This goes along with being bothered by my weight under the category of "Things I Feel Terrible About, But That Are True." I really do not want to be the girl who cries over a haircut, but alas I am. But! I'm blaming the drugs mentioned above.
I actually made my mom come and drive me to the salon so that I could get it fixed. Praise Allah! Because now I am cute as a button. The stylist was really understanding too, especially considering that I walked into the salon, stood in the center of the waiting area, and loudly proclaimed, "I do NOT like it."
The point of this post? Feel free to run back to the salon when your hair looks like ass, or return a sandwich to the deli if it has mayo and you specifcally told them to hold it. Or, you know, whatever. Don't be a pushover and get what you WANT. You'll feel better. And you'll be able to look at yourself in the mirror while you blowdry your hair.