Silence Speaks Louder Than Words

I got my hair cut today.

Neither Housemate E nor The Obnoxious Frenchman Who Hits On Me said a word about it. I take this as both a good and a bad sign. It's good that they were polite. It's bad that this polite silence indicated that they couldn't think of anything nice to say, so they therefore opted to ignore the atrocity that is the current state of my head.

So my hair had been getting a wee bit too shaggy for my liking (read: I had to actually do more than run my fingers through it with some gel/cream/other product to make it look half-decent) and its wavy tendencies were becoming problematic, so I decided to head to the trusty (read: cheap) Dupont Circle Hair Cuttery. I've had pretty decent experiences there before. This time, not so much.

All I asked was that the "stylist" (I use the term loosely) trim it "a little shorter on the sides and in the back" and "leave some more length on the top." Somehow, I came out looking like I have a brown tennis ball perched atop my neck. My hair is short. Really. Fucking. Short. Not crew-cut/buzz short, and not as short as it was that time I accidentally almost-buzzed it by myself, but it's the shortest haircut I've ever intentionally gotten. Yikes.

It's a good thing I won't be seeing either of my parents for awhile. My new 'do would mostly likely cause them to, in the immortal words of Molly Ringwald, shit twice and die. On second thought, maybe I'll send a picture of it to my mother... just to see what happens...