(General Jackassery (jen'-er-el jak-ass'-er-ee): The act, or repetition of an act, that is rife with dumbery and jackassedness.)
Not surprisingly, a couple of months ago I suffered an Ambien-induced moment of insanity and gave myself a buzz-cut in the middle of the night. (The surprising part is that it didn't happen sooner.) In my defense, it was a thousand degrees outside (seriously) with at least a billion percent humidity and the hair on the back of my neck was driving me nuts, so it's not like I didn't have a good reason. (Of course, it may or may have not made more sense if I'd just waited until morning and hauled my sweaty neck down to the neighborhood salon, where they couldn't possibly have done a worse job than I did, but that's entirely beside the point.) Long story short, after I got up in the morning and absorbed the shock and horror of what I'd done (and totally blamed Dan for not stopping me... what an asshole) I managed to turn it into a not-too-awful pixie cut and was able to go about my daily life without needing to wear some kind of pillow case over my head, a la the Elephant Man. (Wait... did he wear a pillow case over his head? Or am I thinking of Michael Jackson?) Also, really huge sunglasses and a cute hat hide a bevy of sins and add an air of mystique, and I'm here to tell you that I've rocked that look all summer. (Movie stars trying to do their grocery shopping incognito have nothing on me. Nothing.)
The trickle-down affect is that I've been suffering through a hideous growing-out phase with my hair (which is what happens when you shave your head, FYI... there is simply no cute way to grow out a buzz cut. There just isn't) that has involved the wearage of a lot of head gear. I have become the hair-accessory QUEEN. Scarves, hats, bandanas, headbands... anything to draw the attention away from the feathery strands sprouting out randomly from various parts of my head and fool people into thinking that I look this way on purpose.
"I've learned my lesson!" I announced to Dan, my friends, my family, and others, all of whom rolled their eyes because yeah... that's not the first time I've done this. (Sad but true.) "I will never cut my own hair again!" I swore, totally meaning it, while Dan ignored me because he's heard it all before and, well, we know how that turned out.
Last week, right on cue, I entered the constant bitchingandmoaning phase of my hair outgrowth. I couldn't do anything with it, other than wash it, dry it, and hide it underneath a hat. 90% of my conversations with Dan involved my hair and how difficult my life had become because of it. ("It's sooooo harddddd to grow your hair outttttt!!! You have no idea how I've suffereddddd! I have no quality of life... none!"). It was getting longer in the back than it was on top and *gasp* *repeat gasp* I was starting to look like I was growing a baby mullet.
Oh HAYELL no, I said to myself, while planting a hat on my head and vowing not to take it off until my hair was at least shoulder length.
Yeahhh... about that.
When your hair reaches a certain length in the outgrowth process, when you stick a hat on your head? You kinda look like a butch lesbian. Which is fine, if you're a butch lesbian. Or even if you're not, but really dig the look and are in to hunting and fishing or what not, or even maybe just have no fashion sense. Or are athletic. Whatever.
I, however? Fit none of that criteria. Ergo, the bi-level lesbian thing? Had to go.
There I was this morning, fresh from the shower, getting ready to stroll out the door and run some errands, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror with my hat on and two inches of hair sticking out the bottom. I had an epiphany, y'all. I was like, "Seriously, dude? All you're missing is a flannel shirt, a pair of motorcycle boots and couple of shots of testosterone and you'd be Chaz Bono."
At this point, common sense should have led me to the phone, where I could dial a number for the salon that is two blocks away and have them do something girly to my hair.
Because that's what you would do. Right? Because I'm guessing you're not suffering from a serious case of general jackassery.
I, on the other hand, AM a jackass. So this is what I did: I grabbed a pair of scissors and went to town on the back of my head.
Tears were shed. Clippers somehow became involved. Things were said. It became obvious, at some point, that it wasn't possible to hold a hand mirror, a comb, and a pair of scissors all at the same time and have any of them be functional.
Long story short, I now look like a peeled onion.
But that's okay, because I no longer look like a butch lesbian when I stick a hat on my head.
It's the little things, yo.