I get bored in the bathroom. Toilet, bathtub, linoleum; there is not a lot of variety in there.
Yesterday I took the scissors and started grabbing tufts of hair atop my noggin.
I snipped here, I chopped there. There was no reason to it. No strategy was used.
When this happens in movies, it all works out marvelously. The heart-broken twenty-something ends up with a rocker hairdo. Thanks to her haste and aggression, she is ready to face the world again. (The moody music that plays in the background probably helps with that.)
The spy that needs to alter their appearance winds up with a dyed and unrecognizable cut. They are still being hunted down, but at least they are stylish.
Me? My hair winds up looking like this. Mostly because I just do not care about my hair. The less work involved, the happier I am. I would sooner hack off a curl than spend every day grooming it. And product? No.
I have no roommate to evenly cut my hair. I have no partner to talk me out of things.
I said, “good enough” and went for my morning jog like this.
The sun had not risen yet. I saw two other joggers and six bicycles. I hardly doubt that they noticed and or cared.
After I had gotten my outdoor fix, I came home and finished the job. I shaved it all off. Nothing left on top of my freshly spherical dome. Take that, comb!
I care if my cat is hacking up a hairball. I try to notice when my loved ones get a haircut. When it comes to my hair, I try not to give even the smallest crap.
My bathroom is still boring. Now I can spend even less time in there.