I've surrendered. I played haircut chicken and my hair won.
I usually get a haircut every four or five weeks. Recently I got cocky (I know, you're shocked) and decided to see how long I could go before I ran screaming from the mirror. See, I've been growing my hair out for the last year or so, and it's slowly getting there, but I was hoping to push through the final stages and FINALLY get the little goofy bits that swoop out from the side of my head at a ninety degree angle grown out past my ears before I went in for my next fifty-buck trim.
I was this close.
I thought it was traumatic enough when, last fall, I was confronted by the hard truth that I was going to have to re-lean how to use a blow-dryer after probably a decade-long hiatus, but I did it. I even learned how to wield a straightening-flatttener-iron-thingy with a reasonable amount of skill. I weathered the Expensive and Irritating Over-Foiling Event of January 2010 with only minimal psychic scarring, and didn't hardly freak out this spring when I realized my hair looked exactly like it did my freshman year on high school. In 1973.
But I persevered. I thought I had seen the worst my hair could throw at me. Until this week.
This week something happened -- some extra millimeter of hair growth tipped the system into chaos and all hell broke loose. During this morning's primping I realized my hair now looks like it did on my driver's license photo over a decade ago, the one that made me swear I Would Never Ever Grow My Hair Out Again.
Well played, hair. I will take you in this weekend to the fancy-pants stylist and pay the big bucks to weed-whack you back into submission, even if it does take another six months to get the stupid swirly bits to grow out. I have learned my lesson and will never fool with The Schedule ever again.
The Hair hath Spoken, and It was So.