Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Leaving the oral surgeon's office the other day (after finding out I need two more awful surgeries on my frickin tooth issue), the receptionist looked at me and said, "Oh, I love your hair!"

I was immediately suspicious.  I come from a long line of insincere complimenters.  My mom finds something about every waitress or bank teller and compliments them on it.  I can't even tell you how many times I've had to bite my tongue when she tells someone with four-inch long fingernails encrusted with sequins that she loves their nails and goes as far as to ask where they got it done, as if she's going to rush out and replicate it.  When someone compliments me, I immediately assume they're sending me subliminal messages to immediately change whatever it was that they're commenting on.  Yes, I may be a teensy bit crazy.

I am lazy about my hair.  Specifically hair cuts.  I don't know how anybody considers going to a salon as relaxing.  To me it just seems like a colossal waste of time.  Sitting around waiting for hair dye to set while paging through boring magazines basically is my definition of hell.  I also don't like when people touch my scalp or wash my hair.  It creeps me out.  I probably was executed by guillotine in a past life.  That's the only logical conclusion I can come to for this.

As a result, I am a slacker on haircuts and end up looking like I am in the Manson Family or an extra from the fundy compound on "Big Love."

Keep in mind my hair is curly-ish and four inches longer in the back.  Eeek.  So I caved and got a haircut.  

Don't worry, I saved all of the discarded hair and I'm going to give it away to a random commenter.  Please don't clone me, thanks in advance.

Tada.  Seven inches of hair gone and my yearly beauty obligation is completed.  By the way, that is my neutral face, which I am told makes me look like I am pissed off all the time.  I am not.  I was just born with it.  If I am pissed off, my mouth will be moving and I'll be telling you why, so don't worry.