The Bobcut

For those of you who didn't already know, my hair has its own persona. And its name is Bob. Bob is generally unruly and uncooperative, feisty, and quite fun. We love Bob, but sometimes he needs some grooming. So today we wandered into a brand new salon because my stylist of the past 3 years up and moved to New York (I cried. And worried. Who would care for Bob???) So the color process went fine, basic bleach isn't all that tough - other than the fact that it burns my scalp and makes my eyes water. Then onto the new stylist dude.
He was a fun-looking guy so I was only slightly nervous when he told me what he was going to do and just started snipping. My theory of haircuts is pretty much, "eh, it grows back." Then, he paused, and said, "how do you feel about a swoopy tail back here?" Um. What? Murphy has a tail. 4th grade boys whose parents let them go to school grubby have tails. I *do not* have a tail. "Um, I don't think I like tails, thank you," I said politely, tummy churning a bit. Snip snip, chop chop - "Did I mention I am the maid of honor in a very conservative and fancy Chicago wedding in exactly 8 days???" I sort of whimper. "Oh no worries, you will look pretty." Snip snip snip. "How do you feel about a fade around the ear? Or a chunk carved out around your eye?" "Um, apprehensive?" Snip snip. Wanting to bite nails. A fade? Like Vanilla Ice? "So yeah I just got back from India where I had odd jobs as a fisherman and a motorcycle repair person and aren't people weird? Peace and harmony, shit man, it all makes me laugh." Um, what? Was that a sentence? Oh poor Bob, how I worry for you. I am going to look like a chunky Vanilla Ice and I just don't think I can deal with that while studying for the bar . . .
And then, I turn, I get the hand mirror, and voila, I look so fucking awesome. Way to go weird hair guy! Bob is certainly very happy to have new stories, even if unintelligible ones.