I’m so glad I just let my hair grow. I harbor a completely irrational terror of hair salons and stylists… As soon as my butt’s in the chair and that awful nylon body-bib is cinched tight around my throat, I feel like I’m being forced to communicate in some sort of arcane code that no one’s ever bothered to show me the key to. By the time the haircut is over, I’m usually so uncomfortable that all I want to do is throw money at the poor scissor-weilder and get the heck out of there.

My last barbershop/salon type haircut was in 1996 and if all goes well may I never, ever go again. I much prefer friends to cut my hair, if it gets cut at all. (just snip the split ends, even it up…)