Despite this, I nurture it lovingly (but resentfully). My hair is treated to the best products - shampoo, pomades, waxes, shine sprays, mousse... the whole nine yards. I probably spend more on my hair than I do on any other part of my body and that's saying a lot.
So, yeah, I'm really hyper-sensitive when it comes to my hair.
If you follow me on Twitter you'll know that I got a haircut last Wednesday. I had decided that I wanted to change up the Velma 'do and was looking forward to a new, awesome hairstyle.
Shit didn't go as planned, people. Not. Even. Close.
And because I'm a perfectly reasonable adult, I behaved like one.
By crying like a fucking three year old who was just informed that Santa was dead and it was her all fault.
The moment ML picked me up from the salon, he knew something was wrong. Maybe it was the fact that I was blubbering and snotting all over myself so much that even the frat boys walking by gave me a wide berth (aka "that-bitch-is-crazy" space).
"Your hair looks nice," ML blurted as buckled in. This in of itself set off alarm bells - ML is generally not one of those guys who KNOWS he is required to compliment my hair every time I get it cut. Frankly, he rarely even notices. ML can be such a liar sometimes.
Normally I would call him out on this but I was too upset so all I could do was wail loudly. It was the kind of crying usually reserved for funerals or lengthy periods of physical and/or mental torture. I was at Drama Queen magnitude of a total fucking meltdown. ML was scared, I could tell. He spent the short five-minute drive home trying to soothe me, but I couldn't hear him over my bawling.
The next few hours went something like this:
30 minutes later - Walked by mirror; burst into a new wave of tears.
35 minutes later - Went to the bathroom to pee; caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Began to sob all over again and shrieked that I was not going to leave the house until my fucking hair grew back. ML disappeared into the basement.
45 minutes later - Began drinking. Heavily. Emailed The Crew (STY, LKW, TK, Myg, etc.).
50 minutes later - Began to cry all over again and was vaguely surprised that if I really, really go at it, I sound like a cow being slaughtered. Cried even harder at the revelation. Got a new box of tissues. And more wine.
1 hour later - The Crew begged for a picture. Drama Queen Jerkface refused to deliver because it was THAT bad. Bucked it up for about 30 seconds and convinced myself it was going to be okay. Then I looked in the mirror again. No dice.
1 hour 15 minutes later - Managed to pull myself together enough to realize that I still looked like someone had hacked off my hair with a rusty machete. Sobbed some more.
1 hour 30 minutes later - Third or fourth glass of wine in hand, I marched upstairs to the bathroom and tried to measure how long my hair was. Cue wailing. ML finally told me to stop torturing myself by looking in the mirror. That was not a wise idea.
2 hours later - Finally relented and sent The Crew a picture, along with this email:
To: The Crew
From: Jenny Jerkface
Re: fucking asshole piece of shit fuckbag douchemonkey herpes-laden haircut
Against my better judgment I am attaching a photo. Keep in mind that I have been crying for, oh, about 2 hours now so I look like shit on top of my shitty haircut [Remember this when you look at the picture, assholes. It ain't pretty]. He cut almost ALL my hair off people. I spent almost a year trying to grow it out and he fucking chopped it. I am so beside myself because 1) I hate my hair to begin with 2) I'm totally fucking vain and 3) I'm totally vain and now I look like a bliofhofnkldfdu [you don't want to know what I said. Trust me.] It's so short I can't even brush it to attempt to style it. I shit you not. I can only run my fingers through it and hope for the best.
Because I don't do anything half-assed and because I really am Vain, for the rest of the evening I pretty much alternated between crying and doing that weird maniacal laugh thing I do when my emotions have completely detonated and I have absolutely no control over them anymore.
Finally, overcome by exhaustion and box wine, I just passed out. I think ML was relieved.
The next morning, ML seemed a little hopeful I had put my devastation over That Fucking Awful Haircut behind me but all his hopes were dashed when he walked by the bathroom and saw me standing there in my underwear, blow-drying what was left of my hair and sobbing uncontrollably. I considered calling out of work but in the end, I just sniffled and whimpered as I got ready to start my day.
It's now been five days since I was shorn and I'm slowly, reluctantly getting used to it. Mainly because I don't have a choice. Ironically, every single person besides me actually likes my new haircut.
Either that or they are a bunch of fucking liars. Only time will tell.