Oh, the trauma.

One of the unfortunate realities of life is that even if you can achieve the perfect hairstyle, eventually it will grow out; and growing out hair means (dun dun DUN) a haircut.

I don't know if anyone else is like this, but I get seriously stressed out anytime I have to get my hair cut. Like, pondering the possibilities for days, if not weeks before the appointment, carefully scrutinizing my hair every morning (and any other time I see a mirror) to see if I really have to get it cut (the answer is generally YES), poring over pictures of bangs on the internet, carefully compiling a small portfolio of photographs of the perfect cut. On the day of the appointment I tearfully bid farewell to my you- may- be- too- long- and- shapeless- but- at- least- I- know- how- to- fix- you hair and go to subject myself to the whims of my hairdresser who, despite her talent, might (in my mind at least) be having an off day and mistake my "trim the bangs like this picture and trim off the spilt ends in the back" for "hey, I'm feeling a little ambitious today, let's go with the Billy Ray Cyrus look!". I have serious mullet fear.
Today was the day. 4:30 appointment, and I was filled with equal amounts of hope that my stylist will be able to maintain the bangs I love so much, and trepidation that I will walk out looking like that kid in every kindergarten class that got ahold of the kitchen shears and attacked her own hair. It is a blessing that I have to take off my glasses to get my hair cut, because a half done cut looks good on no one, and I don't need that kind of stress.
Now the deed is done, and it's...not bad. Of course, I have not actually tried to do anything to it yet, but there are no bald spots, and I don't have anything resembling a mullet. The bangs might be a big short, or maybe it just feels that way because I can see my eyebrows for the first time in weeks. Disaster averted, at least for the next eight weeks. Now I can relax... at leaset until my eybrows start to go wonky again.