Never a mohawk

It seems like once a decade, I buy myself a haircut that makes me look in the mirror and say, "who are you?", and I've started this decade relatively early.

It's not a bad haircut.  It actually flatters me if you see all 5 ft of me at once.  My last hairstyle was really a nice one; it worked well with my hair, but overwhelmed my face.  It was all about the hair.  Given the choice, I think I'd still choose this one, but now I don't know who I am.

I sort of look like someone who idolized Jane Fonda in the 90s, or maybe someone who  had an incident with her lint-shaver.  Wait, actually, and seriously, I think I look like someone who might be talked into wearing   long sparkly earrings in the daytime or who has some age-inappropriate shoes in her closet, someone who wanted all her life to be a writer but only made it to storyteller.  I could have written "Tangled" if I hadn't been relatively calm and happy that year.  

I wish I'd kept a collection of photos of those change-me-please haircuts, some of which I paid for, some I did myself and at least one I cried over, but I'll bet there's a pattern there that charts me in some way, like "Oh, feeling good about yourself?  Get your hair cut by someone you've never met."  or  "Feeling sorry for being so bitchy with your daughter?  Buy a home perm."

If I were really a writer, I should be able to make a book out of that. Chick-lit.