Yet another benefit of moving back to the Island–I can go back to my favorite hair stylist in the world.
She’s a miracle worker, who has never lost a battle with my frizzy, wicked witch-like hair. She gets bonus points for working in a salon that’s in a grand historical house. (I feel like the lady of the manor every time I turn up for an appointment.)
This time I was ready for a change.
“I want a bob,” I announced as soon as my bottom hit the chair.
“That’s quite a bit shorter,” she replied, demonstrating a cut a few inches along a strand of wiry hair. “It would be a great length on you, but it’s going to be a change. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely!” I nodded.
* * *
Post cut and wash, I got a good look at my hair.
“Eek!” I squealed. “It’s so short!”
“You said you wanted a bob!” she squealed, a look of panic on her face. “It’s not really that short. Look, you still can still put it in a ponytail.”
A few deep breaths later, I was in a better head space (and over the initial shock of losing a few inches.)
“You know, I think I might want to go even shorter,” I announced.
“Why don’t you just get used to this length first,” my wise stylist suggested.