Today is judgment day. I’m merely hours away from either completely freeing myself of unrelenting worry or completely demolishing my self-esteem for the next oh…decade.
Back in February, my wonderful hairdresser (and best advisor ever!) decided she was going to try a new direction in her life and retire. A decision I both envied and loathed at the very same time. I’ve been in mourning for the last 7 months, completely cowering in fear of change, but my hair has now decided to revolt against me. It is literally taking flight by the handfuls off my scalp, rather than sticking around and tolerating my neglect any longer. So, out of unprecedented panic of becoming the next G.I. Jane, I made an appointment with a stranger.
To make my matters of stranger danger anxiety even worse, my inner style consultant is nagging at me that its time for a drastic change.
“Why don’t we just kill two birds with one stone?” she says.
“Why don’t you just push me into a grave of seclusion from society?!” I reply.
To improve my chances of this experience amounting to no more than unnecessary agony, I will struggle to conceal the insurmountable amount of pressure I have placed on this newbie’s shoulders. If revealed, it could prove to be a devastating blow in this battle for trust.
So as the scrapping will soon begin, I will paint half my face blue, mount my arse in the black adjustable chair, wrap my body with the armor of the plastic cloak and as I journey off into the sheers of fire, I will encourage all who follow in my footsteps…
”She may ruin your hair, but…..it will grow back?!”
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