owlrigh

I got into a rage with my hair the other day, got out the scissors, and chopped most of it off while hanging over the side. The idea was that no itchy remains would be on the boat, but when I turned around I saw that all the hair offcuts were going into the dinghy; I would have to fish them out anyway.

Mostly I was angry with Ben's mum for not cutting my hair the way I wanted it; her last visit a couple of weeks ago I asked for it short and she cut off a couple of centimetres, the straight-cut way. If I'd been paying her, for she's a professional hairdresser, I would have had a few choice words to say.

There was hardly any time before I had to go to work, and so I packed everything up quickly and headed ashore to find Ben.

"What does it look like?"

His horrified face said it all.

"Can you fix it up a bit?"

"I only have the fibreglass scissors," he said, and went off to find them. They're huge shears, and he delicately SNIKed bits of hair off with them, the blades sounding ominous in between his admonishments. "It's all different lengths! Okay, I've fixed it as much as I can, made it layer-y, but there are chunks everywhere."

I wwore it in a ponytail the next couple of days anyway, and then went to visit my family up on the Gold Coast over my 'weekend'.

"You cut your hair!" said my mother, and then got out her scissors to 'fix' it some more. "It's not straight!"

Which I didn't want it to be, anyway, as hair cut straight across looks awful on anybody. I fended her off that time, but throughout my visit she would take to combing my hair and then -- a surreptitious SNIP! would occur, and I'd have to fend her off again.

Work rolled around again, and on Sunday I sneaked out during my lunch break for a proper, paid-for haircut, by someone I could tell off if they didn't do what I wanted.

"What happened here?" she asked, combing my hair down furiously.

"Um, my mum cut my hair," I lied.

"Your mum's not a hairdresser, is she? I'm sure your mum's a nice person, but don't let her do it again!"

I walked out of there twenty minutes later feeling kilos lighter. I hadn't realised just how heavy my head of hair usually is, and although it seemed like she cut enough off to make me bald, I still have longish hair -- only now all layered so that it's springy and swishy like in shampoo ads.

Even the video store lady stopped me in the aisle, a couple of hours into wearing the new look, and complimented me on my hair. Every second female -- no blokes -- have made comments on the hair, about how nice it looks. It makes me dread how I've normally looked with the usual old-style homecut! There are photos of the really bad ones my mother gave me years ago, unfortunately; I look at them sometimes and wish her to perdition...

"Your hair looks more like you, now, than your old hair," said Ben. "Suits you more."

I can even put my helmet on without it being in the way, take it off, and it doesn't look overly helmet-hairy. Helmets are good to save your life, but sheesh, they sure do get in the way of trying to look good at the end of a ride.

And so, all that came to an end with a $23 haircut. Don't be so cheap in the future -- you're not starving! As a reminder along these lines, I accidentally cut one particular chunk next to my ear very short, and it sticks out from the side of my head. That'll teach me to shell out the required funds!

Edit: 'after' photo added

A couple of weeks ago I decided to continue on with my collection of piercings. This time it was to be an extra two holes in my right ear. A relatively conservative choice, I thought, considering that I will still have to work in the future.

With this in mind I trotted along to the piercing & tattoo stores around the town, my brother Damien in tow. Since I didn't know of either stores, it would be the one with the cheapest price.

"Twelve dollars," said the first one.

"That with a gun, or with a needle?"

"Gun. If you want it with the needle it's $30."

Thanking them politely, I went on to the next store. Damien and I stood around waiting for ages, looking at the designs festooning the walls. No person appeared, despite my calling out time and again. Eventually a man with more metal in his face than skin came running in.

( Many tries later, I get the needle. )