I Went to Indianapolis And All I Got Was This Lousy Abortion Of A Haircut

That about sums it up. I have now discovered that nothing will make you start to feel sorry for yourself like hair butchery. I was looking forward to this weekend, despite the fact that BRD forgot when I told him a month ago that I was coming this weekend and opted to go to Geekapalooza instead, that (I suspect) one of my contacts is in Ireland and another is at an out-of-town family reunion, and my parents have their own shit to worry about. I was going to meet up with someone I hadn't seen in ages (known here as CP), and was really looking forward to seeing her right after my haircut, when my mother woke me up this morning to tell me that CP's dog was dying and had to be taken to the vet to be put down, and CP was really distraught and in no condition to do coffee. This is not such a bad thing, since it saved CP from having to watch me have a meltdown, complete with weeping, after having my hair hacked off and blow-dried back to 1986.

I confess, I am vain about my hair. No matter how much I eat or little I sleep, it still looks passable, assuming basic maintenance is performed. I hadn't had it cut since the day I got may master's degree, which is two years, seven months, and seven days ago. Needless to say, my hair was long, and the ends needed serious trimming. I felt that something shorter, say, to my shoulder blades, would be nice. The Hairdresser From Hell, came highly recommended to me by CSL, who is the friend I suspect went to Ireland this week. It's a good thing too, otherwise I'd be tempted to call her up and scream, which she probably doesn't deserve. Anyway, I conveyed my wishes to HDFH, namely, cut to about the shoulder blades, otherwise, I trust you. I should know better than to trust a man I just met. Someone needs to give MS an anatomy lesson, because the last time I checked, my shoulder blades were located on my back, not the base of my neck. I didn't realize just how short it was til I tried to run my fingers through it. It looked longer wet. This was, of course, after I tipped HDFH. I wasn't as concerned about the blow-dry style, for while it was tacky and somewhat painful to produce, I knew a judicious application of a hairbrush could set matters as right again as they're going to be for a while. So, other than bursting into tears in the parking lot, and again at home, and again at the store where I went to pick up a pet sympathy card for CP, what could I do? I brushed out my Totally 80s coif and put my chopped hair in a bun, where it will remain for a year, which is about how long it will take for my hair to grow to the length it was supposed to be today. Oh, hell, I'm tired of being civil. HDFH is Michael Stout, he works at Mane Street at 86th and Ditch, and he fucked up my hair.