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coffeebuddhaYes, I really am doing a post entirely about my hair. No, I don't know when I'm going to be posting fic next. Hopefully soon. Ask the gaping black hole that's sucking in all my self esteem and drive to do anything other than read porn and eat chocolate chips for a more exact estimate.
Anyway! When I woke up this morning I was all sleepy/warm/befuddled/happy, because instead of getting horrible hangovers when I drink so much that I end the night unwilling to lift my head out of my pillow to see if![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
topetine is responding to the messages I'm blindly sending her-no typos, guys! I win at drunk messaging!-I get a brain full of bunnies and unicorn farts. Go me and my Irish/Scottish/German heritage! Anywho, my happy state lasted about as long as it took for me to get to a mirror.
"Coffeebuddha," you might gasp. "Why are you so pouty and holding your hair like you want to rip it out of your head?" Well, let me tell you, gentle reader. It's because my roots had grown out so much during the winter months while I refused to leave my house-it be cold outside, yo-that I could tell what my natural hair color is. I don't know about you guys, but I'm not interested in that. Not at all. It got worse when I actually examined my hair.
That would be my "What the fuck are all those split ends doing in MY hair?" face. Clearly this called for drastic measures.
Now, let's go ahead and make this clear. I don't like haircuts. I just don't. I don't go in thinking that it's going to hurt or anything and I know that it's only hair and it'll grow back. I even know that my hair grows ridiculously fast, so a bad haircut never lasts too long for me. Maybe it's because I hate the way my chin looks when I have that little cape on. Maybe it's because I hate having anything around my neck and the lady who cuts my hair always tightens it about two notches too many when she fastens it. Maybe it's because I'm cheap. The point is, I once went over six years without getting my hair cut a single time and I'm not averse to the idea of doing that again.
Or I wouldn't be, except that now I don't have a weird fascination with pulling my split ends apart like I did when I was younger. Now I just want my split ends gone, because, like Jo, my hair is my only beauty. Seriously, guys. I have gorgeous hair. It holds a curl just as easily as it straightens. It's thick and soft and shiny, and if I treat it to lots of conditioner, it only frizzes a fraction of the amount it used to. I've never been all that pretty, but people have been complimenting my hair for as long as I can remember. It's probably the only thing about myself that I seriously like.
Point is, split ends gotta go. And go they did!
See this hair?
This hair gets to stay and be my friend, because this hair has a stamp of approval and a thumb's up. Woo, my hair! :D
As always, please ignore the potential hazard zone that is my bathroom counter.
Anyway! When I woke up this morning I was all sleepy/warm/befuddled/happy, because instead of getting horrible hangovers when I drink so much that I end the night unwilling to lift my head out of my pillow to see if
topetine is responding to the messages I'm blindly sending her-no typos, guys! I win at drunk messaging!-I get a brain full of bunnies and unicorn farts. Go me and my Irish/Scottish/German heritage! Anywho, my happy state lasted about as long as it took for me to get to a mirror."Coffeebuddha," you might gasp. "Why are you so pouty and holding your hair like you want to rip it out of your head?" Well, let me tell you, gentle reader. It's because my roots had grown out so much during the winter months while I refused to leave my house-it be cold outside, yo-that I could tell what my natural hair color is. I don't know about you guys, but I'm not interested in that. Not at all. It got worse when I actually examined my hair.
That would be my "What the fuck are all those split ends doing in MY hair?" face. Clearly this called for drastic measures.
Now, let's go ahead and make this clear. I don't like haircuts. I just don't. I don't go in thinking that it's going to hurt or anything and I know that it's only hair and it'll grow back. I even know that my hair grows ridiculously fast, so a bad haircut never lasts too long for me. Maybe it's because I hate the way my chin looks when I have that little cape on. Maybe it's because I hate having anything around my neck and the lady who cuts my hair always tightens it about two notches too many when she fastens it. Maybe it's because I'm cheap. The point is, I once went over six years without getting my hair cut a single time and I'm not averse to the idea of doing that again.
Or I wouldn't be, except that now I don't have a weird fascination with pulling my split ends apart like I did when I was younger. Now I just want my split ends gone, because, like Jo, my hair is my only beauty. Seriously, guys. I have gorgeous hair. It holds a curl just as easily as it straightens. It's thick and soft and shiny, and if I treat it to lots of conditioner, it only frizzes a fraction of the amount it used to. I've never been all that pretty, but people have been complimenting my hair for as long as I can remember. It's probably the only thing about myself that I seriously like.
Point is, split ends gotta go. And go they did!
See this hair?
This hair gets to stay and be my friend, because this hair has a stamp of approval and a thumb's up. Woo, my hair! :D
As always, please ignore the potential hazard zone that is my bathroom counter.