I usually wait until my hair reaches a state best described as ‘vagrant poodle’ before I get it cut. This is mostly due to poor time management.
I changed stylists last year because the dapper gentleman I used to go to always asked “Have you been cutting your own bangs?” in what I considered to be a more judgy tone than was strictly necessary. It’s basically the hairdresser equivalent of the “Have you been flossing?” question that dental hygienists ask in a way that suggests that, if the answer is ‘no’, you might as well move to the bottom of a well and cut off all contact with humanity because you are worse than Stalin.
Where was I?
Right. Haircuts. There is something both terrifying and awesome about getting your hair cut because you get to de-hobo, but even the most artistic and talented hairdressers sometimes make questionable snips that leave you looking like a freshly shorn Lhasa Apso. (I don’t know why all my hair analogies involve dogs today but you get my drift.)
Note: Pic adapted from this nifty archive photo.