I'm due for a haircut. I'm sporting an alterna-cute 'do lately, kinda like Paige Davis on Trading Spaces, but less wingy. It absolutely, positively must be maintained every six weeks with a trim - a pruning, if you will - otherwise alterna-cute starts to look like alterna-mess... kinda like Shaggy on Scooby-do, but less attractive.
So, anyway, by rights, I should book myself an appointment with Victor this week, as my hair demands it. I mean, I can already feel the Essence of Shag Rug happening when I start the styling process in the morning. The task is getting a little more difficult... comparable, I suppose, to going from caring for guppies to caring for giant man-eating sharks.
The last couple of mornings, I've woken up, and it's like whole tribes of tiny beings have decided to make their home on my head. Little villages have been moulded with tufts of hair. City planners have come in, excavating roadways and landscaping sites. There is a Quidditch pitch on my cowlick.
Oh sure, I get out of the shower, and all traces of civilisation have been wiped out. (No one has bothered to build an arc in preparation for the rains.) But now we have a virgin field to work with. Stubborn curls must be manipulated. The evils of frizz must be tamed and put to rest for another day. The Quidditch pitch must be hidden. A fifteen-minute styling session turns into a desperate 25, and my heart rate goes up as my bangs continue to flop, weed-like, in the wrong direction.
Pomade is worth its weight in gold at this point! Time is definitely of the essence. So why not just pick up the phone call the salon?
Wouldn't you know it... yesterday and today, I come into work, and the first thing people are saying is, "Mare! I just lo-ove your hair today!" and "God, your hair looks so GOOD!" and "I don't know how you do it! You look like you've just stepped out of a salon!" Honest. To God. I look like I've just stepped out of a salon. That's what they're telling me. Like this is what I want to hear.
NOW what am I supposed to do?
I'm torn between the compliments of people who don't understand the degree in architecture one needs to style my abundance of hair in the morning, and the wrath of Victor if I go in a couple of weeks from now, because I've succumbed to the flattery of those who just don't know! But... what if I DON'T make the appointment? Will I still be able to maintain this act of accidental beauty that's happening on my head? Or... if I do go in, will I be literally cutting off my chances at a couple weeks worth of a miraculous coif?
I'm fraught, my lovelies. Fraught, I tell you. But don't worry about me. I'll just sit here, stewing... fretting and half out of my mind... caught up in this most monumental conundrum... go ahead... off you go... no need to worry about me...
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