Starting very early in my childhood, my mother issued me an ultimatum with regards to my hair. I could either assume responsibility for its care and maintenance or she would cut it all off. Thanks to this ultimatum, I wore what is euphemistically referred to as a "pixie cut" for the majority of my childhood. Courtesy of the local SuperCuts I looked not only like a boy, but a boy with a shitty haircut.
As proof here is the photo off my diving license, circa 1997:
This is the haircut that would eventually grow out into the infamous mullet, just in time for a passport photo. The passport is now thankfully expired.
Once I managed to grow out every last god forsaken layer of my SuperCuts haircut, I settled into a habit of cutting my hair once every year or so. The cut is chin-length and goes straight around. No layers, no bangs, virtually unfuckupable. The impetus behind the cut is always the same; I get tired of washing, conditioning, and brushing long hair just so it can end up in the inevitable bun. Also, it's fucking hot.
So it's getting to be that time of year again and I've got this crazy idea that I want to splurge on my first real hair cut ever. I blame impending grad school related life changes.
Of course, if I'm going to drop a wad of cash on a hair cut I'm going to want something a little bit more complicated than my usual chin-length chop. Go big! Go bold! Go Natalie Portman?
This is where the voice of reason steps in; I grab my diving certificate and I take a hit of cold, cold reality. Thanks through the cruel currents of my gene pool, I do not have Natalie Portman's cheekbones. Also, at 5'8" and 133 pounds, I don't really do pixie.
One small shred of hope remains however. SuperCuts did me no favors, perhaps a more skilled professional could overcome my previously shitacular experience with what would later become Natalie Portman's haircut?
Most likely I'll sit on the idea for a while, talk big, wuss out, and do the same thing I do every time. Because that's how I roll.