Well, just the bangs. It looks bad, but not as bad as when I did the same thing drunk, at age 19*.
I can’t afford a haircut at a decent salon, and I refuse to go back to the place I can afford, because the last two times I got a trim, they did almost as crummy a job on my bangs as I just did. I’m not kidding. But I had to do something: they were down to the bridge of my nose, and I had been parting them in the middle. I didn’t actually make things worse; just bad in a different way.
It could be worse. All the strands are within millimeters of each other in length; just raggedy. I figure, in a couple of weeks, they will have grown out some, and I will be able to go to a salon and get them done properly.
How does this work, anyway? I wet them down, took a chunk between my fingers, then marked a spot that I thought was just above my eyebrows, and snipped. Sproing!! Two inches above my eyebrows! Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the same scissors I use to cut paper.
But as I told Mr. Rilch (who is going to trim the loose ends for me tomorrow), “With all the problems there are in the world today, I figured a bad haircut is not the worst thing that could happen. I can see now; that’s the bottom line.”
*That time, my roommate kept promising and promising to trim my bangs, but always waffled when I tried to get her to follow through. Finally, one night while I was drinking with some people, I quietly took the scissors into the bathroom and emerged with what I dubbed “The Fault Line”. So she had to take pity on me and even them up.