I went back to Michelle, who—with the exception of the past year—has been my stylist for almost 20 years. I haven’t needed to see her for quite a long time, although I did ask her to give me a face back in May before I had my topless photos done. (Sorry for that very misleading/disappointing link, Chris Fukai.) But today I actually needed her to cut my hair. I needed it, and it was a lovely thing to need.
Michelle, whom I trust implicitly, suggested some texture on top and to keep it short at my neck until the top grows longer. Makes sense to me. But the really fun part came when she used some thick styling paste-y stuff to make my hair all stick-y up-y in some places after she gave it some texture. It was cool to walk out of her salon feeling like I had an actual hairstyle—a really-and-for-true style. It’s been a long time, folks. Let me have this.
When I came home I flattened the back of my hair when I leaned against the sofa cushion. I went upstairs and smashed one side of my hair when I lay on my pillow briefly while on the phone. When I changed out of my itchy haircut shirt, the remaining cute stick-y up-y parts moved into a style that I can only describe as “either Jen just got electrocuted or is really, really scared.” Also, the stickiness of the styling stuff grabbed all sorts of lint when I put a different shirt on. Pffft.
I forgot; with style comes difficulty. Beauty can be inconvenient and painful and messy.
Still, I’ll take all the messy there is if it means I have hair. And I do have hair—so much, in fact, that I needed a cut. Yes, indeed.