Camera Phone Fun

So I finally got paid for writing the articles for InSite. Not in money, but in the next best thing: a gift certificate. The certificate was for an obscene amount of money to a salon, so I decided to let a professional color my hair and cut it, following only the stipulations that it be long enough to put in a ponytail and be extremely low-maintenance because I am a lazy bastard.

Behold, the results!



I took this one before I walked outside and had it blown all over the place.



This one is in my apartment, in the room with the best light I could find. Stupid camera phone.

I hate getting my hair cut. I love reading the crappy magazines (my Glamour reading was interrupted by the need to wash out the dye) but I hate the idle chit-chat with the person cutting my hair. I feel like I should be talking because this woman is putting chemicals on my head and wrapping them in little bits of Reynolds Wrap, but I don't know what to say. She asks me where I work. I answer. She asks me if I'm still in school. I answer. She asks me if I have any plans for the evening. I answer. I try my best to follow the Cosmo date rules— ask her open-ended questions so I don't have to carry the whole conversation, try to answer her questions in a way that she can keep talking, but it just kind of falters and I wish she'd give me the Glamour back and end the awkwardness. The woman who did my hair wasn't nasty, but I'm just not good at small talk. Talk, I can do, especially with people I know.

But, whatever. My hair is now cute and not a big heavy sack of nothing attached to my scalp, so mad props to the fine people at Amaci Salon for turning this lazy bastard into a cuter lazy bastard.