So earlier this afternoon, I exercised my choice making ability and opened my Attic door, stepped out into the world from my inner sanctuary and headed to the Beauty Parlor.  As I have previously shared on these pages, the SO and I have a little tradition of getting our hair cuts together ~ in separate chairs and usually by different beauty helpers, but we typically walk through the Beauty Parlor doors together, shaggy and unkempt looking, and exit together, less shaggy and kempt.  But something (namely my dissertation process) got in the way recently (meaning the past 3 months) and the SO finally gave up waiting for me and went to the Beauty Makers by himself. 

Well today, I looked in the mirror and said you know junemoon, enough is enough.  You see I had been trying to convince myself that I was purposefully letting my hair grow out versus just not being able to get myself to the hair cutter.  In my defense, I have been known to have almost every known hairstyle known to womankind in my 50 years of living ~ long, medium, short, perm’ed, bangs, no bangs, spikey, flat, and asymmetrical.  For the past four years, I have worn my hair very short.  For those who are familiar with the hair shearing tool typically used to give men crew cuts or buzz cuts, the Beauty Operator uses a No. 4 attachment on the top of my head and a No. 3 attachment for the sides and back of my head.  That folks, is very short. 

Anywho, I digress.  This morning’s reflection in the mirror jarred me back to reality and I had to admit that even if it were true that I was purposefully growing my hair longer, that it was an idea whose time had passed.  In other words, the new look was not working out.  Put another way, WTF was sitting on top of my head that looked like it was waiting for the taxidermist to have its way with? 

That’s when I opened my Attic door and set off to the Beauty Parlor not bothering to pass Go and not collecting my 200 bucks (now that I think of it, that was sort of silly ~ I could use the 200 extra bucks).  When I exited the Beauty Parlor’s door, I definitely was more kempt.  I am happy to report that the scaring-the-bejesus-out-of-myself-potential-when-looking-in-the-mirror quotient has gone down several notches.  Oh what a minute or two sitting still in a chair can accomplish.