November 13, 2002

I just further mutilated my already questionable homemade haircut. I have no self-restraint. This is my downfall. I get it looking almost normal, then I start snipping away and I just can't seem to stop myself. Now I look somewhere between 4-year-old boy and a Star Trek convention. I might as well get a turtleneck and prosthetic ears and some kind of asymmetrical brocade smock and be done with it.

I am so not cute enough to pull this off.

And yet, I am way too cheap to go out and get a real haircut. Somehow beauty is the one expense I absolutely can't rationalize. It's not the vanity of it. I've got no beef with vanity. I can spend a retarded amount of time and product getting all tarted up--I just can't spend a lot of money on it.

I can't abide spending real money on makeup or manicures or haircuts or what-have-you. Maybe it's the notion of pampering that turns me off? I hate the pretense of salons and I hate the haircut chitchat and I hate trying to describe what I want and I hate leaving it to someone I don't know to decide. And there's nothing worse than going to a salon--even a friggin SuperCuts--after a shitty homemade haircut-gone-wrong. You get the condescending chuckles and the snickers and the quips about trying to cut your own hair. Balls to that. I'll wear this raggedy ass abomination until it grows out. (Of course, I'm only hypothetically too cheap; I actually have no money at all, so my objection to spending it is purely theoretical.)

I'd just buzz it all off, but Thanksgiving's coming up & my dad won't even talk to me if my hair's too short. This is going to be pushing it as it is. I'll have to wear lots of mascara and ruffled dresses.

Besides, if I stick a barrette in it, you can still tell I'm a girl.

11.03.02