So, what’s worse than a French haircut? A Swiss haircut. Sacred heart of Jaysus, a blindfolded five year-old could have done better. What a hack job. For those of you who are labouring under the delusion that there will be pictures, run to your nearest psychiatrist’s office and ask for some reality pills. Not a chance.
I don’t usually care too much these days if my hair looks weird. My Vogue layouts have been dwindling over the past few years, so what do I care if I look like I accidentally caught my head in a wood chipper. But since I put in six months of devoted scissor avoidance, only to end up worse off than when I started, I have to say I’m not impressed.
Not that the guy who left me looking like this wasn’t a lovely person, he was. But he can also kiss my arse, on both cheeks of course, no need to abandon all Frenchy civility. Now I have to go through the whole month after month of that awkward in-between phase. Again.
The worst is people will look at me and think that I actually asked for this mess. They’ll picture me sashaying into a salon, tossing my head and saying, “Right. What I’m after is a round ball on the top with chunky, uneven layers on the bottom. Think depressed nun circa 1985.” At least it’ll be a distraction from my fractured French.
My first thought was to go somewhere else to have it fixed, but you all know where that will take me. By the time I find someone who actually knows how to use a pair of scissors, there’ll be nothing left. Fix after fix until I’m completely bald. G.I. Bobbi. Maybe that’s not a bad idea. I know for sure there’s a wig store in Vevey. The other day I saw a hot pink afro in the window. Trust me, it would be an improvement.
I suppose there’s nothing to do but suffer it out. So I’d say you better brace yourself for some periodic whining over the winter. Rusty can’t go through this alone. I know him too well. Any more of me cringing in the mirror and he’ll load me up with every drop of liquor in the house, hold me down and shear me like a sheep. He’s the king of foreplay.