Fickle Pixie

So far, it seems as though I have only been writing every two weeks or so. I'd like to change that. I'd like to say that I will write more, but I am fickle as hell.

Recently I've been writing about my day to day, and since I haven't missed a day being alive, I really have no excuse for not writing something at least every other day for each day I am breathing. Still following along? Here is the most recent of my adventures:

I am a cutter. A hair cutter, that is. Over the last eight or nine years, as soon as the going gets tough, I get to cutting..... my hair. The first few times I went to a salon. I played it safe with a shoulder length, layered cut. I felt free! As free as my hair as Gaga would say.

My second semester at USF (Jan. '11) I got a little ballsy. One night after watching Cabaret I found myself in the bathroom with scissors gettin' my Liza on. I hacked off my own long hair! Long, like past my shoulder blades, long. I wanted to cut off more! For the next few days after Chris helped me even out the super blunt bob I gave myself, I had this incredibly strong urge to dig out the clippers and get my Britney on. I was stressed, depressed, and I started gaining the "Freshman 15" in my junior year of college.

Since then, I've been trimming, snipping, and secretly (not so secret anymore, huh Jonesy?) cutting my own hair. I have avoided the salon chair because I have been too stressed to entrust another person with the one thing in my life that I have felt in control of for the last few years. I always tell the story of when my little brother angrily shaved his eye brows off after being stung by a cat fish (we're a bunch of crazies in my family) and how we were worried about what he'd save off after being hit by a car on his bicycle two weeks later.

I have come to the realization that (hair)cutting must run in my family.

Now before any of you "professionals" start in on me about why I should not cut MY own hair, let me just stop you in your tracks. Italics mean business, Did you seeeeee them? My own hair. I grow it, wash it, brush, and style it the best I can. I can cut it if I want to. Sure you may do a better job at the end of the day, but if you're also any better at doing dishes than the average Joe, than I have a sink full of them for you. Email me for my home address. Besides, it's not like I'm trying to remove my own appendix.

So without further ado, I have come here to say that I sat in a salon chair. I wanted my hair gone, but not Crazy Britney gone (I love you Brit). I walked out of there with a longish pixie cut. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I'm feeling confident enough to go to a more competent hair dresser to have it cut the way I envision it.

PS Stano cut his hair off after being scraped off the side of the road, but very badly. He tried to give himself a mohawk, but it was so bad he wouldn't come out of the bathroom. His mother called and asked me to come over and talk to him. He let me in the bathroom and I "fixed it" and he felt better. He ended the day with a blue mohawk, perched on the right side of his noggin.