A few weeks ago I started to seriously think about getting a major haircut.
I've been trying to grow it out, but the longer my hair is, the younger people think I am. Everyone tells me that someday that will be a good thing, but it's not such a good thing when you're twenty four. Just last week someone at work called me an intern. Again. Then I was carded when I went to happy hour AND when I bought spray paint at the craft store. Finally, at my sister's high school play on Friday night, a fellow audience member asked me what grade I was in.
So tonight after work, Michelle and I had a few hours of pampering. First we went to Universal Nails for manicures and then walked next door to the Hair Cuttery.
Clearly we are fancy ladies of sophistication and tight budgets.
I sat down in the chair and told the stylist what I wanted, and as she cut and talked I thought about how excited I was to finally look mature and grown up.
Our conversation drifted to the topic of high school, and she asked me what school I had gone to. I told her, and she said one of her best friends went there, and asked if I remembered a classmate named Amanda Duffy.
Duffy was a common last name at my Catholic high school, so I asked her what year her friend graduated.
NINETEEN. NINETY. TWO.
I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD IN 1992.
Apparently my new haircut makes me look like I could be THIRTY EIGHT YEARS OLD.
I CANNOT WIN.