I have worn my hair short a good part of my adult life. So, when this past October I headed to the Lower East Side, to have this legend of a stylist take my bob to a pixie, I thought I couldn't go wrong. I wanted a low maintenance style that would keep me looking "put together" even when I wasn't.
But I hate it. It's taken four months to admit it, but I do. It's no different than I've worn it before but now it looks more dowdy than chic. It pairs up much better with a screen print Disneyland sweatshirt (you know the kind-the one with Chip and Dale dancing in front of Cinderella's castle) than a little black dress.
It's vanity and it's awful. And probably less about my hair than my patience wearing thin. I'm tired of feeling lethargic, of being more comfortable in pajama bottoms than jeans, being told by the same colleague day after day that I look like I'm carrying twins. I want to be a hot little mama and right now I'm feeling more like the Snoopy balloon in the Macy's Parade.