It’s spring, so we chopped off the hair. Sophia’s short curls really suit her spunky personality. Jonathan, despite his indignation at being made to sit for a photo, is handsome and looking like a boy again (his hair and eyelashes were so long, even when he was in head to toe blue people were calling him “she”). Kate, a newly-declared tomboy, decided to rid herself of four inches of dead weight. She’s running track this spring and loving it, but has decided everything “girly” in her life has to go.
The path of deception always starts off so innocently.
I’d gotten a haircut, and then decided the top layer on one side wasn’t quite right. Rather than drive all the way out to Cedar Bluff again, I decided to try a little DIY.
Big. Mistake.
Even to the most casual observers, it was clear I’d done a whack job on my hair. I could sort of compensate by scrunching up the curl, tucking it behind my ear, but it was just not right. The rest of it was nicely layered; this section was hacked in a straight line.
Of course I couldn’t admit to my hair stylist that I’d done it, when she always sends me off by saying “if anything’s not right, just come back in and I’ll get ‘er fixed.” Instead, I waited like two months, hoping it would fix itself.
It didn’t.
And then, rather than go back in and let her see the monstrosity that was my hair, I cheated on her. I went to a new place down the street, a funky place that charges twice as much and where the stylists are gay and cool and give you the hard sell on getting highlights.
And the lies compounded. The stylist at the new place said she would take off two inches, but it was more like four by the time she was done. And then she sold me some stinky animal-free hair stuff that was so smelly and useless that even Derek advised me to go back to my old routine.
Now I have to either avoid seeing my stylist for the next, oh, three months while this grows out, or come clean.
I deserve this. I don’t like it, but I deserve it.
