I guess I’ve been unofficially growing out my hair ever since I cut it. Not that I hate it, really, but I think I’ve finally realized that the texture of my hair makes it so that it will never look how I envision it should look, no matter how much styling and product I (theoretically) use. By the time I realized that I desperately needed a trim, however, it took an additional few weeks to actually book an appointment with my stylist, who, having decided to return to graduate school, only cuts hair on Saturdays.

So when I showed up in her chair last weekend, I was feeling vaguely apologetic, as though the state of my overgrown hair was an insult to her craft. I guess I was feeling a little eager, as well.  Trim here here and here, I requested. Get rid of this cowlick, chop off that insouciant kick of the hair. And by the time I left the salon, I looked like this:

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Hmm, well it seemed like a good idea when I was describing it to her…
Then I realized that I was no Karen O, and I felt a little like this:

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Hmm, in fact, the more I thought about it, the more I felt like a little immigrant girl, fresh off the boat. Case in point:

little immigrant me

(a little aside – lately I’ve been obsessed with the thought that one of my eyes is askew, a la Shannen Doherty, but looking at this old picture of me made me realized that I’ve always been like this!)

Here, let’s see the old me and the new me side by side, shall we?

CIMG0280little immigrant me

You see my point, despite my sad attempt to sweep my hair to one side.

And here’s another disturbing image:

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Yes yes, it’s all full of love and pukable adorableness, but have you noticed that our haircuts now match? Who’s his hairdresser? Me. Maybe one of these days, I’ll start dressing him like me too.