A Hair Disaster.
Those that know me, and especially those that have known me for a long period of time, know that I change my hair like I change socks {a tad bit of an over-exaggeration...but only a tad.}
Red, brown, black, streaked. Long, short, REALLY short, shaggy, chic.
I've been there and done it all.
So it could only be assumed that somewhere along the line I have walked out of the salon plotting death on the bitch with the scissors and wondering how on Earth I was going to hide my head for an entire semester without anyone noticing that I look like a cross between a cockapoo and a skunk.
And believe me, it has happened.
But there is one particular hair disaster that haunts me to this day.
I'm still not sure how old I was. I figure that I'm blocking out the unpleasantness and absolute horror. All I remember is that I could have won, hands down, in the poodle category of a dog show.
Yes, it's true.
I'd been permed.
Not just any perm though. Oh no. No, I was permed so tightly that you could have bounced quarters off my head.
It was horrible.
I vividly remember this picture of my sister and I, in our matching, but different color, dresses with equally matching poodle perms.
Some how Sara pulled it off.
Me? Not so much.
Unfortunately I can't find a copy of this picture to share, and I know my father is probably chuckling to himself right now because he knows EXACTLY what picture I'm talking about...so this re-enactment will have to do:
I'm still the taller sister too.
