I created a new hair-do for myself last week.
I didn't do it on purpose.
I leaned too close to the fireplace. I heard ZZFFFT, then the unmistakable smell of burning protein.
Now I've got a sort of bi-level thing going on. On one side, jaw length. On the other, earlobe. Sort of like the picture, only not that cute.
I'm trying very hard to hard to like it a lot. It helps to attach strong adjectives: unique, original, one-of-a-kind.
Then there's stick-out-like-a-sore-thumb, ahead of it's time, and what was she thinking.
The fireplace is big enough to crawl inside. Perhaps that's what I was thinking.
When my sisters and I were kids, long bangs were the rage. Beatlemania, dontchaknow. But when hair got in eyes, my mother lost her patience and came at us with the scissors.
She always, ALWAYS cut our bangs too short. If you've been on the receiving end of a too-short bang cut, you're feelin' me.
Perhaps this same inclination explains my mother's seeming inability to hem pants without turning them into clam diggers. You can say it until you're blue in the face: not too short! not too short! Save your breath. You're going to get too short. How many times did she make us suffer the indignity of high-water pants and Charlie Chocks bangs?
(My family calls them Charlie Chocks bangs. Maybe your family calls them Buster Brown bangs. Or refuse-to-leave-your-room-until-they-have-grown-back-out bangs. Or perhaps just ugly ass bangs. All are good.)
But this fireplace hair-do, I don't know. I'm leaning toward pretend-you-did-it-on-purpose.
I think I'll call it The Cinderhella.
Or The Hot Head.
For Greek myth lovers: The Icarus.
I'll keep working on it.
My former hairdresser, Richard Breaks, once told me I should file such failed experiments under "S"—Seemed like a good idea at the time. Except this wasn't an experiment.
I'm pretty sure my mother pushed me.