You would think I had learned my lesson from my last impulse haircut.
I suppose the fact that this time I'm not in Rome and that yesterday my hairdresser spoke fluent english (as opposed to the expansive vocabulary of the Italian man- the one english word in his bag- "okay!") made it feel not quite as impulsive as walking into the first salon I saw after eating gelato at the Trevi Fountain. (Thank you Roman Holiday for that brilliant idea.)
So on Wednesday I called and made an appointment for Friday with an unknown hairstylist. I had planned on getting my long locks trimmed and thought maybe I'd add a few layers. Maybe.
Then, fifteen minutes before I leave for my appointment, eating my cheerios and flipping through a magazine, I decide to go shorter.
Six inches shorter.
I think my biggest mistake was when the hairstylist asked me a question about doing something with my hair. I told her "I trust you."
Goodness gracious, that girl went to town on my hair. And I think she had a little too much fun out on the town.
My hypothesis on why she curled my hair into ringlets with a straightener- she messed up and she didn't want me to see until the day after. Well guess what lady. It's the day after. And I'm glad I didn't give you a big tip.
Goodbye messy buns. Goodbye side braids. Goodbye flowing easy long hair. You will be missed.