The Curse of the Bad Haircut

Found a video of myself obsessing over a bad haircut from months ago

"I know what to get you for Christmas," said my boyfriend last week, "But it's not very romantic." 

Oh boy.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Well, you've been talking about how much you've been wanting a haircut, so..."

I started shrieking with excitement before he could even finish.

Back in February, I got a terrible haircut, as shown above. It was awful. It was too short, too thinned out, too lopsided, and too "news anchor". It was the result of a deal I found on for an expensive salon uptown. Bad idea. I've been trying to grow it out for the past eight months. The thing about a bad haircut is that it's still a bad haircut even when you're growing it out. A bad haircut is cured only by a good haircut.

"It is romantic! It is romantic!" I said, tugging at his arm, "It's so thoughtful! Thank you!"

I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. Or talking about it, for that matter. My appointment is scheduled for tomorrow morning at Cutler Salon.

"I think they may have to cut a few inches here to even it out," I explained to him last night on the sofa. I held up a chunk of hair and turned my fingers into an imaginary pair of scissors to demonstrate. Like most guys, I knew he preferred long hair. 

"Will you still find me attractive?" I asked, in all seriousness.

"Of course," he said, kissing me on the cheek, "I just want you to be happy."

I smiled. He's the best.

"The only way that I would find you less attractive..."

My smile dropped.

"...Is if you cut your hair like Anne Hathaway in Les Misérables."

Is he serious? I think he's actually being serious.

"You mean, like, if I specifically asked the stylist to chop off locks of my hair with a dull razor and make it as uneven as possible?"

He nodded.

"That is not gonna happen!"

Oh God, if that does end up happening, I Dreamed A Dream should be my theme song. It just better not happen.

To see how my haircut turned out, click here.

Le Miserable

One evening, when my boyfriend came home from work, he found me on his sofa, wrapped up in a fuzzy blue blanket in front of my laptop with watery eyes. 

"Tell me my life will not be like Les Misérables!" I sniffled.

"No, your life will not be like Les Misérables," he said, hanging up his coat, "You need to stop watching that trailer."

"Tell me that everything will be okay!" I insisted.

"Everything will be okay. It will all work out."

"That's what Fantine thought," I pointed out, "She thought everything would be okay. But then she ended up in prison! And had to sell her hair! And became a prostitute!" I started sobbing at the thought of having my hair lopped off with a dull razor. 

Perhaps I was being a tad overdramatic, but it's certainly scary to imagine that life will only continue getting worse and worse like Fantine's did.

After nearly three years since breaking off a five-and-a-half year relationship, I feel like I'm still in recovery mode--not emotionally, just in the get-my-life-back-on-track sense. But, honestly, what is there to do but to cry a little, laugh a little, and keep going?