I’ve been “threatening” to cut my hair for a long damn time. Last night I made my sister do it.
THIS…
MINUS THIS…
EQUALS THIS…
(aka “my little sea urchins”)
EQUALS THIS…
Fer real ‘do, here I am. Tell me you do not see an uncanny resemblance to Sophia from Road Rules 10: The Quest (too bad I didn’t get to be hugged up on fine-ass Jisela, hooch that she may be).
My mom and grandma said they didn’t like it. My aunt wisely refrained from commenting. My dad said he hadn’t decided yet if he liked it or not, but I suspect it’ll fall in the same category as “I never did like those eyebrow piercings.”
I’m still not in love with it yet. It hasn’t been this short since it grew in in the first place. And I broke my “do not cut it too short to put in a ponytail” rule. But it is 3 billion times easier to take care of and that’s really all that matters. In case you really wanted to know all the details, I cut off all the part with the relaxer in it. What’s left is what has grown since last June. I could comb through the new growth, and I could comb through the relaxed part, but the transition was always a tangled mess resulting in large hairballs at the end of every shower. It doesn’t move at all when I move my head.
A new tattoo might be next.
