I don't bother doing my hair before going to get it cut. My hair is incredibly thick and I am incredibly lazy; I saw little point in styling it for the five minutes I would be between my house and my hairdresser.
My hairdresser is a lovely gentleman called Garry (not my boyfriend Garry, just to clarify) who has cut mine and my Mum's hair for about five years. He has three children who he dotes upon, always remembers what we talked about the last time I was there and is genuinely a decent chap.
I don't really like having my hair cut. I find it awkward having someone do something as intimate as wash my hair, even when I've known this person for years. Because I have a fringe, which always ends up growing ridiculously long between cuts, there's a good portion of the visit where I am sitting with my eyes covered up by my hair whilst someone waves 220C metal (straighteners) and sharp blades (scissors) in the proximity of my head. This is quite nerve-wracking. I also immensely dislike staring at myself for so long without the cover of my hair; I have a very strange face.
Anyway. At 11:30am this morning, I looked like this.
Fringe is back in. It prefer my hair bigger usually, but this is just how he styles it. I am totally incapable of styling my hair so it will never, ever look as straight and sleek as this again.
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