I am in the grips of a vanity spell, and because of that I went and cut my hair yesterday – except now it’s too short and I look like a wreck. I went from having hair down to my collar, to just having a centimetre at most. I can’t do anything good with that, so I’ll just have to wait for it to grow out again.

The “Académie de Coiffure”
The “Académie de Coiffure” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Remind me, the next time the hair-dresser asks me ‘do you want short?’, to be much more specific about length than just answering ‘yes, please’. In stead of a fashionably acceptable definition of short, I feel like I could just as well be bald now. It is that short.

I am afraid nobody will recognise me tomorrow. When I try to go to school, they’ll send me out on the street again with a “who the hell are you? Get out of here!” Ben and Abbie and the others will stare blankly at the stranger in front of them.

The problem is that when I have it this short, my curls are much more visible. With longer hair, gravity straightens the curls a bit until I can apply chemicals. When I came home to Mark he took one step toward me, touched my hair, and told me “Why did you do this to yourself?”

He should talk… A week ago he came home with just as short hair, except it was fire-engine red instead of his normal brown. So yes, I’m having an existential vanity angst today. Maybe I should buy a wig? I am, after all, a practising homosexual. I have standards to uphold. I can’t be seen outside with bad hair, can I?

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