Bad haircuts

Back when I was in Junior High (painful enough) I went by myself to get a haircut at the local beauty parlor (that dates my tale right there!), armed with a magazine photo of the perfect style. I was pretty excited, anticipating a very stylish, new me.

Of course the result was nothing like what I'd brought. It was hideous.

I left the parlor and was met by the "bad boys" from my grade. Whatever I looked like? didn't matter at all because they were just mean kids. I went straight to the drug store upstairs and bought a scarf; you can imagine the selection. I remember it was pink.
And that's all I remember from that day, and that haircut. I must have survived going to school, and of course my hair grew out. By the time I was in high school, I wore it long and straight. I suppose the mean boys eventually grew up; they may have daughters and granddaughters of their own.

I bring this up because my normally fabulous haircutter had an off day last week, and I was in the chair. She's really good, and I've had dozens of great cuts these past 10 years (how loyal am !?). This time, rather than heading for a scarf, I am comforted by my junior high experience: I know my hair will grow out. And there were no mean kids waiting, no name-calling or hoots of derision. Even Allen didn't mention it until I did.