I have my nightmare for a haircut.
Thick bangs, cut straight across the brow, which causes them to curve a little. The party in the back of my head falls just below my shoulders with almost no layers at all.
I look like a 12-year-old.
How do I know this?
My boss, who is also an old family friend, told me that he wanted to just pinch my cheeks and tell me how cute I was.
The pre-menstrual pimple where Cindy Crawford's beauty mark should be doesn't help the I'm-not-an-adolescent! vibe either.
All of these things seemed very reasonable when I asked for them at 8:15 last night. And, normally, my stylist is perfection itself in translating my totally dorky needs - like not wanting to blow dry my hair ever or use any kind of product - into a fairly stylish look. But last night I was her last appointment of a 12-hour shift and the appointment before mine didn't show up and so I bet her brain started to relax.
All I would need would be braces to complete the completely uncool picture that I present to the world.
Or, I could braid my hair in two braids and go out into the world as Wednesday from the Addams Family for Halloween. Every day.
I have a back-up appointment already scheduled for two weeks from now, just in case I do not follow what I assume to be a normal progression of emotions for women who get bad haircuts and ultimately get used to it.