Tropical Depression: The country haircut I trimmed my own bangs. I was between moments when a $(kind of pricy)$ haircut seemed reasonable (these days the price includes coloring the grey hair) and things weren't looking too bad so I thought "I am perfectly capable of trimming my own bangs." This goes against years of my no exceptions policy of NOT cutting my own hair. My mother and sister both prefer a bargain and so they often find themselves fixing the issues they are left with when they get home from the bargain salon. I don't have to fix anything because when I get home there is nothing wrong. If there is something wrong I call up my hairdresser and she fixes it for free. I do not cut my own hair. Except I did. And of course I cut it just a little bit crooked and also too short because that is what happens when I throw years of solid thinking out the window to save a few bucks and try to skip a haircut.
Somewhere along the line I read a blog post by an author type woman who moved from the city to the country and was writing in part about adjusting to country life. I can not find the post again for the life of me. Anyway, she'd been in the country for a few years and finally succumbed to what she called, as I remember it, the Country Haircut. It's not inherently BAD- there's just something unfortunate about it. Like it is the haircut that leaves style out of the equation. Like it is the most popular haircut in town because that's the only one the woman at the salon knows. Like its the haircut you will die with because Donna at the salon also works for the towns funeral director, doing make-up and hair for the deceased. The country haircut is utilitarian, it is not stylish.
After my bangs f*ckup I was chatting with a couple of well-regarded local ladies and realized suddenly that we all cut our own bangs and that we all looked a little folksy and utilitarian. It was disconcerting, but I stopped for the moment being embarrassed about my hair. And this must've been when I slipped another inch down the slope because before I knew it I had colored my own hair with some of that crap you buy at the CVS. And it was an unmitigated disaster. So then I tried to fix it with another box of crap- also a disaster- and and only THEN did I send my hairdresser a facebook message and leave her a voicemail at her home number. Because, seriously, this has to stop somewhere.
Denouement: My hairdresser called me back and said something soothing like "there is always a solution." I have an appointment.
