Which all adds up to ten cumulative inches of hair in my trash can, ten inches less hair on my head.
Pictures. You want pictures? Well, I tried to have my local amateur photographer take some, but she doesn't always push the button down hard enough so then I have to reach out and help her and then... well the shots we get aren't always glamorous. But here you go.
Maybe I'll try again later.
So I blame my mother for most of this. And my childhood. (Love you mom.) See, growing up my mom cut my hair. I have never put much thought into my hair beyond: I like it long, and mom cuts it. End of story.
Turns out that Nebraska is a little far away for my mom to be coming out here to cut my hair. Turns out I have two children now who like to twirl and twist my hair. And so I knew it needed to be cut. I kept thinking I would go get it done, you know, somewhere like Great Clips.
Then, a week and a half ago on that windy Wednesday, I sat looking at the dead ends in despair. The next thing I knew, chop chop went the scissors and I was looking at eight inches of my hair, sitting in my hand. Not much to do but finish the job at that point. Then a week and a day later, this past Thursday, I tried to even it out. (The left side was a full two inches longer. Oops.) Now I don't even know what it looks like, and I'm almost past caring. Almost. Contact me in a week to see if I've cut off another two inches.
Hair grows back, right?