I usually have very short hair.  I like it that way, and I guess it suits me, in that I don’t have to do anything much to it- just wet it, add some product, and voila, I look like I’ve just stepped out of the salon.  Or the pool.  Or it’s very humid today.

Either way, I’ve had this crazy ageing thing happening to me, in that I have been getting older.  It’s been happening for many years now, but I’ve only just realised.  So I thought I should grow my hair a little.  To soften my look a little.  To something not quite so severe, befitting of my advanced years.

The gusto in which my hairdresser agreed leads me to suspect this was a thought she had long been having herself.  So I grew and grew and grew my very short hair over the hot Queensland Summer, until I could stand it no more, and I went back to Jules with the command: cut it all off.  You see, I have A LOT of hair, and it was driving me slowly insane.  Jules refused to comply.  She said I was doing so well, and I had grown it so long (not even to my shoulders) that I had to reflect and wait another six weeks before doing anything rash.  You’d think I was Sampson, with how adamant she was about two inches of hair.

In the meantime she coloured and cropped and thinned and slashed at my tresses until she was satisfied that I had a ‘do’ that I could live with until next we met.

Everyone has been sweet and encouraging, calling my new style feminine, pretty, and lovely.  They have said that I look more like my daughter (who is seven and jaundice, so I’m not sure what than means), that I look younger and like a Hawthorn Mum (again, not sure if I’m happy with that, ROSE.)

This is kind of how it looks:

It’s a bit thin, but it might be okay in a few months…

I have been coping (just) with all the extra styling and attention that having hair requires, until this morning.

This morning something horrific beyond mention occurred.

And no, I didn’t burn it all, Michael Jackson style with the straightening rods.

First I must explain: in the beautiful pictures you see of me on this blog, I am only showing you part of the story- I am wearing contact lenses, because, frankly, I am extremely short-sighted, and my glasses are as thick as the bottom of a schooner.  The frames?  Well I purchased them about a year or so ago when my hair was short, and thick black frames were all the go.  They really were, I promise.

This morning I was getting the kids breakfast, when I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and this is what I saw:

…a strange man/lady looking back at me…through my glasses…

Well, not precisely that, but the thing looking back at me was strikingly similar:

I think I’d rather look like Wayne…

And quite frankly, the Garth look is not really what I was aiming for.

It appears it may be time to re-visit the salon, and not for a simple blow-wave.

So there you have it, my greatest secret revealed.  Me, in glasses, on the interwebs.  Don’t ever say I don’t suffer for my art on this blog.

Now please excuse me, I’m off to see if I can get a li’l sumpin’ sumpin’ from my main man, because you know I’m not gonna be getting ANY after he sees this blog….

Ever had a bad hair day?  Who did you look like?  

(One of you should start a thread with all of your comparative pics.)

…From The Ashers xx