Short Hair

No, not short hairS. Please!

I went through a phase last year where I was tired of my hair looking the same as that of every old lady. You know, short, practical, boring. Well, maybe not every old lady of my acquaintance, but most of the ones I don't know. In line on front of me at the grocery store. At the bank. Etc.

So, I decided to let it grow out. I figured I'd get it to the pony tail stage, and I could thread it through the back hoopy part of my race caps. I'd be cooler, I reasoned, with a tail swinging off the back of my head. So the hair grew, and it grew, and it grew. I was definitely feeling the late sixties, my hippie days with love bead headbands and unimpressive stringy brown tresses. Lots of tresses. I began to remember how hot hair is when it hit in the eighties one freaky day in March. Not groovy by a long shot.

So much for the sixties and pony tails. Found a cool and hip new hairdresser to wield her artistic razor through the minefield on my head, and behold, I'm back to short hair. Edgy, hip, cool short hair. I promise never to grow it out again.

For one thing, my Beloved didn't recognize me from the back. For another, it just wasn't flatterimg for this old broad. And for a third thing, it was too danged hot.

I'm a short hair kind of girl, and that's all there is to it.