Big girls like me shouldn’t whine about something as trivial as this. And I’m not fishing for compliments; I’m simply stating fact.
I hate my hair.
I waited until the eve of my trip to get it trimmed because I didn’t want to be hunting for a decent hairdresser in India, though I’m sure they’re all over the place.
So by the time the stylist got her hands on my head today, it was like major surgery because I was drowning in hair. Needless to say, it needed a good shaping.
I merely wanted a trim, but then got seduced by all the hairstyle magazines. All the models had wavy hair, and cute cuts that would work with my texture.
I kept opting to keep it slightly longer, even though I knew that would be a pain. And since I was planning on not stuffing a hairdryer into my overly loaded carry-on, not practical at all.
So I gave in and settled for short and simple. And then remembered I’d had the same cut in the past, but it was so long ago, I forgot why I hated it then, and why I’d vowed never to make that mistake again.
I got a hairdo displayed by a model that everyone in the salon agreed looked like the late Liz Taylor. On me, I think it looks more Nurse Jackie. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, except she’s a strung-out drug addict.
As I sat there in shock (yeah, I know; no one to blame but myself), the stylist offered this consolation: “Girlfriend,” she soothed, “You’re gonna thank me when you’re in India with all that humidity.”
Good point. I feel better already. And oh, I must remember to pack a hat. One that offers complete coverage.