Bad Haircut

I love having my hair cut. I love having my hair washed and my head massaged. I love the smell of the shampoo and the expensive wax stuff and the shininess my hair takes on after it's been cut. I love the scalding powdered salon coffee that would be totally undrinkable if it was served to you in a cafe. However, I find it a bit disconcerting that, given that success in my job(s) depends upon my ability to communicate, I seem to be totally unable to translate my vision for my hair into anything intelligible to a stylist.

The process is always the same:

1. Explain the vision - thinned out so it sticks up but not too much shorter, and wispy so it's not too brutal.
2. Talk at length about captioning.
3. Give up and say, yes, I work in advertising.
4. Gratefully accept haircut which looks devilishly funky in salon mirror.
5. Leave salon.
6. Buoyed by knowledge of funky haircut, flirt outlandishly with attractive men.
7. Catch sight of short, thick, brutal haircut in shop window.
8. Curl into ball and roll feverishly towards nearest bathroom.

This morning's haircut, combined with the sandals I had on, made me look like I'd just been dishonourably discharged from a Roman legion. Even after an emergency rake-over in the ladies' I felt so decidedly unsexy that I had to go immediately to buy several pairs of girly earrings. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it :p