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I used to have short hair. Really, really short hair. Then my neck got hurt and I couldn’t go to the hairdresser for a while, which meant my hair grew and grew some more and after 25 years or so with a coiffure shorter than 1 1/2 inches, I was enjoying being able to feel the wind in my hair and decided to let it grow until I got sick of it. That time has officially arrived.

However, my excellent hairdresser has moved to a place that isn’t accessible, the hairdresser just up the street from me isn’t very good and how hard could it be? All I wanted was to chop off about half of it, vaguely in the shape of my hair on the picture I use for Health Central (taken by my darling sister Janne and with gratuitous baby inclusion in the form of my niece Morgan)

and as I knew someone who “does hair” as a sideline, I asked if she’d be willing to take scissors to the mess on my head. And did you notice the foreshadowing? The looming doom? Because things got a little strange.

Although this person is very good at doing weaves, extensions and dyeing hair, I think she may be unaccustomed to cutting the hair of people and pale as I am. By the second time she closed the scissors, I realized it wasn’t going to be good, but by then, it was too late. When I put on my glasses again, having been blissfully sufficiently blind to not be able to see myself in the mirror, I may have lost my breath a little. Because not only wasn’t it good, it was bad. Or rather Bad. Most erm unusual haircut of my life, it appears to be the bastard child of a Dorothy Hamill and a Prince Valiant (much like Disaffected Scanning Jockey experienced – click on that for visual aids about those styles, should you need it) and the worst of both and instead of revealing my cheekbones and thereby the alleged heart shape of my face, this one somehow adds width and I feel decidedly like a melon. You think it can’t be that bad? Let me show you:

I used flash in the first picture, as my bathroom is kind of dark. This provided unexpected inspiration to acquire a personal spotlight for the next few weeks, except instead of directing the light onto myself, I want it to point away from me, thereby blinding any onlookers. However, since that picture didn’t do the haircut justice, I tried again, by resting the camera (which does not have image stabilization) on the counter, leaning it backwards and attempted the bored model look. Which instead of making me look remote and sexy, was assisted by the lighting and the angle of the camera into giving me the appearance of a terrified rabbit (really, I don’t normally look like this)

My mother claims I look like a serial killer in that one. At least, that’s what I think she said – it was hard to tell for the laughing.

So I tried again, pasted a smile on my face and I’m sorry about the dim and shaky, but it may be a blessing, because I think I’ve figured out why looking at Medusa turned people into stone. It wasn’t a nest of snakes she had on her head – it was a bad haircut. As proof, our postal carrier has just delivered a package to my door and during the entire exchange of pleasantries and wishes for a good day, his eyes were fixated on my hair, a look of terror in his eyes. I believe he barely escaped with his sanity intact.

And want to hear something even funnier? I can’t get this fixed for at least 3-4 weeks, because I see this particular person several times a week and she thinks it looks great.

All I can say is that I’m very grateful I’m not in my 20s or 30s, because if I were, I’d be very, very upset. Instead, every time I pass a mirror, I laugh.

And it’s too good not to blog.