Because I know how things should be done

A few months ago WR and I were having one of those big DTR-type talks (Utah slang, translation: Define The Relationship). The subject turned to what would happen if we should one day break up. It was a valid concern because of all the friends we have in common. It's not like we could just have some falling-out and decide never to see each other again, because that would result in one or both of us becoming a socially-deprived shut-in Miss Havisham-type figure.

I told him it would all be quite easy. If he ever broke up with me, it would not be a long conversation. I would say goodbye, ask my blog friends to not to talk smack about him, and then I would go get my hair cut.

WR: Your hair? Why a hair cut?

Me: Oh yeah. You get a hair cut as part of the whole "feeling good about myself again" thing and then when you're ready you head back out there, all sassy and with good hair.

WR: Huh. Guys don't do that.

Me: No, they don't. They ask out the next thing that moves in order to make themselves feel better. We get our hair cut and hang out with our girls and watch chick flicks until we're no longer a danger to ourselves and others. Because we actually have sense.

So, rather than make myself a liar when it comes to ETRs (new word invented by my mom, for which I must give her props, because that's funny), I had to do something about my hair. It is perhaps fortunate that the breakup fell at a time when I was starting to get sick of it. The last few weeks I've just been pulling the ropey dingey mass back in a ponytail because there was just too much hair to deal with, and if left to its own devices it threatened to take over my face and the whole world. You know when it's come to that stage it's bad.

I found of picture of, heaven help me, Jessica Simpson with cute hair. After conferring with Cicada on whether it was, in fact, cute, I printed it out in the computer lab, all furtive and stealthy. I took it to the beauty school at the college down the road and got a cut, style, and 2 highlight colors for 15 quid. NICE.

A young lady named Kaylee did my hair. I remember her name because it was tatooed on her lower back. And when another girl came over to help put the foils in my hair she asked if we were doing 2-brown 1-blond or the other way around. Kaylee's response was "Whoh'evah." Um, Kaylee? That is never the right answer, sweetie. I'm here to tell you. Kaylee asked if they do hair differently where I'm from, and I thought about messing with her and making up a bunch of stuff. Also her mobile went off in her pocket, which is against the rules. After swearing and digging for the phone, she set it on the table in front of me.

Me: Are you going to put it on silent?

Her: No, I can't. Now if it goes off they'll think it's yours.

The only flaw in her brilliant plan is that I would never be rude enough as to leave my phone on in a hair salon. Nor would I leave it ringing, either. Also my phone doesn't play stupid songs like hers does.

She did a good job, though. Three hours and two British fashion mags later (way dirtier than US fashion magazines, btw, I had to skip half of it) I was finished. The bad part is always when they go to style it and I end up looking like a half-drowned electrocuted person. I seem to be the only one who understands that hair isn't actually going to form attractive ringlets if people keep tugging on it and raking their fingers through it. Seriously, do they teach them nothing in these schools?

I paid my money, ran home, and stuck my head under the shower so that I could do it myself and see what it was really going to look like. And I absolutely love it. It took 5 minutes to style, and I can now comb my wet head without breaking the comb, the hair, or my neck. I'm including a picture, but it actually looks better than this, on account of the wind blew out some of the curl.

But seriously! 15 pounds! That is pretty much the best bargain ever. My ETR ritual is now complete.