Yep.

So I went and had my hair done the other day. That was pretty much a nightmare. I really hate trying to find a new stylist. It has been 7 months since I moved away from the best Jennifer who bossed me around with my hair and made all of my dreams come true (except the reocurring one where my sister's father in law is a rampant serial killer and I have to stop him with only dental floss... still haven't resolved that one- if I were ever willing to apply myself the way those women in the movies do when they have dreams like that, I might blow open the biggest case of serial murder that Northern Alberta has ever seen... except that he's not actually a serial murderer at all. He's just a guy who brought my brother in law into the world so I'd better not put him behind bars for good. It would make Christmases pretty awkward. Elephant in the room, so to speak). So I've been putting off getting my hair done at all costs, which is basically a train wreck since I insist on being an unholy shade of blonde- and that is a commitment unto itself.

By the time I'd itemized my list of demands to the quivering woman prior to her butchery, I could see her actual mind blowing. That really should have been the first red flag indicating that I should have bolted out of there faster than an epileptic speed freak (offensive? doesn't even make sense? huh?)... but I stayed. I decided not to be judgemental against her for juuust long enough for her to ruin my life. STUPID. ALWAYS go with being judgemental.

I'd show you the end product, but someone might google search it and think I'd done it on purpose. It was somewhere between circa 1996 A&W team member and captain of the scrap booking soccer mom club (or SS). It wasn't punkish, saucy, feminine, respectable or ahead of the trends AT ALL. So I pushed her down, told her that her kids were ugly and left.

Anyhow, luckily, my hair is naturally curly and I can easily hide all the haircut flaws by letting it go into it's organic state of depraved steel brillo pad.

The End.