I cut my own hair last night.
I don't visit hairdressers unless it's an emergency (ie: the hair looks like a recently sodomised tumbleweed, or I dyed it yellow like that one time).
Why go through the admin of going to a hairdresser when you can just do it yourself?
Got scissors, will cut. Saving me time, saving me money, putting me before the granny who needs her perm reblued.
Handing my disposable income to a flaming poof called Eugene who is savvy with scissors seems stupid to me. First I have to make an appointment (admin), then I have to drive there (admin), then I have to wait and watch in horror when he does something rash (admin) and then pay him R500. That'll buy a decent pair of Nine West's.
I'd rather forfeit the highlights for a pair of flashy shoes, frankly.
Albeit. I probably shouldn't have cut my own hair last night.
After having a few gin and tonics at Giles with C, I roared home, and in an absurdly implusive attack of spontaneity and stupidity, decided “fuck it – the bottom is coming off.”
Luckily I was surprisingly prudent, because it is not a complete disaster. Uneven, sure. Some bits longer than others, while other areas have just been hacked away, but strangely still intact.
I just snipped away with reckless abandon. And now, it's what I'd like to think a neo-classical masterpiece.
No one has a hair do quite like it. So I feel super special this morning.