Honey Boo, in the Wood

What is it about prozac that makes me want to cut all my hair off? The first time I was prescribed it, I did this:


I’ve had a fringe before. I was kinda bullied into it by an over-zealous hairdresser, who charged me a stupid amount and then made me cry. It worked, sometimes, but whenever it rained the edges would curl up and my head would resemble a mop – or a dog of some kind. So, really, I think I knew I couldn’t get a fringe again. Least of all because I promised the Husband not to let me do it again because they’re such a pain to grow out.

But, man, I really wanted one.


Luckily, one of my dearest friends is also genderly-misaligned (I think I made up that phrase, I’m still playing around with how to describe it that will most annoy, without being offensive – that’s the way with friends). This means that I can get girly advice whenever I need it without having to talk to girls, which I find almost impossible. So, Wordman (Wordperson?) talked me out of anything too short, too extreme or too difficult to change as soon as I’m back on my feet and maybe not so mental.

Above is the result. I’m a bit nervous about the sweeping side-parting, but hairdressers have been trying to get me to take a side parting for longer than I can remember, so I let her have a go. And she’s lovely, so I trust her.

In other news… Wordgirl (nah, that sounds too much like street slang) has maybe set up a way to leave comments on this site. Which may, or may not, be a good thing. We’ll see…


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