I've decided (for now, anyway) that I shall address this blog to the ambiguous, engimatic, all-knowing Internet. Kind of like when you were really young, and you first started writing in a diary, and you always addressed it to "Dear Diary" because it was your best friend, better half, and secret confidante. Except when it became so secret that you forgot where you put it and pretty much lost it because it was in the best hiding spot ever so that your little brother and sister would never find it and read it, even though they were only, like, 8 and 5 and absolutely could not give a darn about what you thought, much less read your awkward chicken-scratch writing.
Yeah. Like that.
So anyway, Internet, I have a problem. An addictive problem. A bad problem, if you will.
I cut my own hair AFTER I go to a professional salon to get it cut.
I do it all. the. time. It is a sickness, I tell you. (A horrible, asymmetrical, follicular sickness, full of frustration and idiocy.) Most of the time I only trim little bits of hair off the ends--it's not like I've ever taken the kitchen shears and hacked off 6 inches or whatever. But I have cut myself some bangs, time and time again. It is ridiculous. Because I don't have enough backbone to be direct enough when I tell them what I want.
Here's the weird thing, though (at least to me): I never cut my own hair when I was little. I was such a good little girl that it never popped into my tiny pea-pickin' brain to grab me some toddler-sized safety scissors and go at it, pruning my shrubbery of a head.
[Side note: I love the word "shrubbery." And Monty Python.]
I've learned, however, to never "practice my art" when I'm frustrated or upset, although it is particularly satisfying. Except for this last time--I was mad at how the stylist had styled my hair and was being incredibly whiney and stupid, so I marched across a large parking lot in my high-heeled wedge shoes, up three flights of stairs, and stormed into my room only to immediately whine some more and--you guessed it--furiously manhandle my scissors. Fortunately, I still retained enough of my senses to do a halfway decent job. I'm actually now very pleased with my quasi-bangs (they sweep across my forehead, unlike traditional 5th-grade-picture-day bangs), especially after cutting off just a teensy bit more tonight.
I told you it was bad.