So...the mullet.

It's not as big of a deal as I originally thought it was I guess (at right is me with my brown mullet), but here goes. I hadn't cut my hair in months, it's summer, Brett was also in need of a haircut, we were having a good day, and we decided to go to Fantastic Sam's because he'd gone there once before and they'd done alright. So. The woman I get is older, kind of trashy looking, but whatever...you never know who's gonna give you a good haircut. I tell her I want about half an inch to an inch trimmed off - just to get rid of the crap at the ends - and that I maybe want some layers too, so it feels a little lighter for summer. She tells me I need an inch and a half cut off to be healthy. I say okay, if I have to. From there, she bitches about her husband's skin cancer, her skin cancer, her psoriasis, her ovarian cancer, her breast cancer, etc. Then brags about how well she tans and how she'll be "as brown as a baked bean" or something like that, by the end of the summer. THEN she sticks her finger in her ear...like waaaay deep down, and sort of squats a little and tilts her head as she scratches inside her ear and grumbles in her smokery southern accent about how the psoriasis has made its way into her ear. Then she runs the finger through my hair again. Periodically throughout her rant she'd snip off seemingly arbitrary chunks of my hair. When I noticed a five-inch piece fall in my lap, and then saw her pick up the section she'd snipped it from and cut off another inch or so, I knew it was going to be bad. In the end, she'd cut off what looks to be about three inches or so from the back, and almost seven from the front. When she was finished I met up with Brett, whose similarly skilled stylist had left him looking like he'd just joined the marines. We went to the grocery store afterward and I tried to hide it by shoving it into a bun, but the front pieces were too short, and kept falling out. After we finished shopping, I started to cry before we even got to our car. Then we got home and I cried some more. (To the left is a lovely picture of me crying on the floor) Anyway, after I moped and whined for awhile like a spoiled, vain GIRL (which I am), I bucked up, sized up my butchered locks, and tried to figure out what I could do to improve them. The answer: dye them ash brown. I know you can't tell much from the picture, but it' a lot less red (you can see it more in the new "row of me" image at the top of the page). My hair has a lot of red in it naturally, and for some reason it's really hard to get rid of, but I think I look better with this ashy brown hair, since my skin and eyes are naturally cool toned. So it does something to make it look better, but I also know it does nothing for the cut. However, I can't bare to chop off more than she already has, so I guess things are staying this way until my next haircut. Which, when I mangage to get up the courage to do it, I will not be getting from Fantastic Sam's.