Every single time I walk into a hair dresser, every single time, I tell them that I am unafraid of change. That I am putty in their hands and they can do with my hair what they will. My only guidance is where I tell them that I am a designer and internet professional and I want to look like one, not a frumpy stay at home mom. I want to look like the punk rocker that lives in my heart, not the pajama wearing chewed up food canvas that lives in my house.
And every single time they give me some version of The Rachel.
My cousin Summer is a hairdresser and set up a salon on the deck of the beachhouse we stayed at this weekend, and I pounced on the opportunity.
Since I am not a great style replicator, she took my dry, just out of bed hair, looked at how it wanted to go (complete with the occasional weird swoopy piece) and gave me a cut that worked with my hair. Choppy and punky and weirdly asymmetrical. I am completely over the moon about it.
Of course, now that I have cool girl hair, I suppose this means I should really stop dressing in capri pants and T-shirts. That will be my next step.