There are few cases in the world when two inches really means five inches. I know you are thinking perhaps of the example of some men's measuring abilities in regards to certain parts of their bodies.
What I am referring to is the two inches I asked to have cut off the bottom of my hair today. The stylist, or should I say, the hair cutter, must have been using the same "measurement" guidelines that some men use.
Aren't bad haircuts a bummer? Like today, I went in, all excited, ready to embark on the next phase of my life. The new haircut phase. The swinging, shiny haircut phase. The "Gee, My Hair Not Only Smells Terrific, It Also Looks Terrific" phase.
Instead I am in the "Crap, I Can't Even Pull This Into a Decent Ponytail" phase. The "I Guess I'll Just Use a Lot of Product" phase. The "Maybe I Should Just Go and Get It All Chopped Off" phase.
Why can't my trips to the salon be like it is for the people on "What Not To Wear" when the guy with the beard cuts their hair? Where the magic of face shape and hair texture and product mixed with the perfect cut and color yield dazzling and breath-intaking awe?
I had a haircut like that once. Her name was Brigette. She was my husband's before she was mine. She took a simple look from the Garnet Hill catalog and her shiny silver scissors and transformed me. Sigh.
That's what I want for the holidays. That slow-motion, hair-swinging high that comes from an incredible cut.
Because that is definitely not what I got today.