Time for a haircut again. A buzz cut, actually — which somehow turned into my preferred hairstyle last year when I did it just to get at the damn folliculitis that was for some reason attacking my hair follicles.
Now I know I need a haircut when it gets long enough that I have to comb it. Or that bit in the top middle sticks up funny & makes me look like a kewpie doll. [wince] That’s almost bad as my previous indication of needing a haircut: someone telling me that I bore a similarity to the songwriter Paul Williams. [double-wince]
(Once long ago someone told me I looked like Jodie Foster. As if! But that beat being compared with Paul Williams.)
I used to have fairly long hair when I was younger — thick, at least shoulder length, I think at one point it even went halfway down my back. I didn’t mind that, except I hated my parents’ insistence that I wear barettes to keep it out of my eyes. Used to take ’em off as soon as I got out of site of the house. Then at some point during high school my hair began getting a bit thinner, something I attributed to stress but which was more likely to do PCOS, which I was later diagnosed with.
I still kept my long hair until the second year I was in Alaska, when I paid Shaunta, the nine-year-old daughter of the family whose basement room I rented, to cut my hair. It’s been short ever since, though I usually get the haircut from someone just a little more experienced with the scissors.