As I mentioned on Monday, I was id'd, and it made me re-thinking my image. So while I'm still not entirely sure how the "white-trash-sports-car" (whose subwoofer definitely kicks out the bass despite my attempts to NOT rattle the windows in the neighbourhood) fits into my image, I do know I don't like having long hair.
That's not entirely true - I love the option of pony tails and updos to avoid the daily mess of washing hair, drying hair, straightening hair, styling hair. However, I don't think long hair works on me. My neck is too long, my jaw too undefined.
So I took the plunge. I instantly trusted my latest hair dresser (after months of disappointments, followed by pleading my mother to cut my hair in the middle of her kitchen the day of a wedding), and chopped off about 6 inches of hair.
It was almost immediately that I felt that not only did the hair suit me, it also suited my age, my job, and my life.
That is, until I tried to hit the gym on my lunch hour, and couldn't resort to the post-shower sock bun. And this last weekend? Both Scott and I were id'd buying a bottle of scotch. Because that is what under aged kids drink, right?
But despite the inconvenience and the ineffectualness of the haircut, it's still me, and that's what matters!