Hairapy

Life is an endless struggle full of frustrations and challenges, but eventually you find a hair stylist you like. ~Author Unknown


Damn if that isn't true.


Today, ladies and gents, a great tragedy has befallen me. This morning, I woke up blissful with the prospects of a new and gloriously fresh day, that, and a rat's nest full of God-awful hair. Now, for those of you who aren't familiar with me, I love hair. Not like, LOVE. ADORE. Fervently infatuated with hair. Seriously, holy crap. When I see a hot and fine twenty-something strolling down the street with their glorious hair rustling in the cool breeze I just about pass out. And then come to my senses realizing that fainting will only prevent me from rubbing my face sensually and desperately in said someone's beautiful locks. Bust out the smelling salts people, I'm going in. Fuck, it is hot in here (if I get any "No Holly, of course not, it's cyberspace" comments I'm gonna punch a kitten)? And yes, I just spent 25 minutes youtubing and googling 'hot hair'. You should try it sometime. You know, when you're bored. ... and alone. Just saying.


That being said, today the WORST and most horrendous thing has happened to me. As previously described, I woke up, looked in the mirror and almost barfed. Yup, it was time for a haircut. I hopped in the family's fecal matter colored rape-mobile style van and drove my way down to one of the local salons. Considering the fact that I'm a broke as shit college student, I unfortunately don't have the monetary funds necessary to hire Fabio's stylists. So alas, I must bear the weighty burden of crooked cuts, snarky hair dressers, and the stench of old people waiting their turn for a less than fabulously fierce haircut. Despite this, at this particular local salon, the stylists are generally quite proficient. Or at least, that was my impression. I waltzed into the salon, grinned at the non-existent line and plopped myself down in one of those swivel chairs. Yup, ready to go. The cut seemed to be going grandly, the hair was fluttering to the floor and I felt the breeze rush through my cropped locks. Of course, then the nice preggers stylist hands me the mirror...


Oh.


My.


God.



I look like Justin Bieber meets 50s housewife with a bit of Julie Andrews in the back to spice it up. This is one of those times where Fuck My Life is definitely an understatement. I now have the kind of hair that only looks good in a hat from 500 meters off. So, on top of hair rule #1 (never let your hair go natural, trust me babe, it ain't that hot) and rule #2 (never take it upon yourself to cut your hair) rules #3 and #4 have now been added.


Rule #3: Asian bangs and layered chin-length bobs do not go together.

Rule #4: Never let a pregnant woman cut your hair. She will attempt to make you look like her mother.


Ugh, here's to a month of beanies and well-placed pigtails.




Oh, and for those of you who are interested:
http://lesbianswholooklikejustinbieber.tumblr.com/