Let's play... "What color is my hair?"

Well, it's a myriad, actually. It's a mix of brown and red and auburn and orange and light brown and the ever popular white that is starting to take over.  I know better. I truly truly do. I need to live by one single rule as far as my hair is concerned and that is, never, ever, ever do anything to it. Give in to my stylist maybe once a year and let her trim the teensiest amount off of my ends. That's it. Don't do anything else.

In the past month, I have gone from having elbow-length hair to having chest length, layered hair. I have gotten bangs. It was blonde. Then it was black. Then it was light brown. Then it was black again. Then it was dark auburn. Then it was flat blackish brown. And now it's a mess of ruin.

I wasn't going to return to my hairdresser, but now I feel I have no choice. I cannot fix this on my own. The color is bad, the bangs are horrid and it looks like a blocky mess. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I not remember that messing with my hair is very painful? It must be like childbirth. You know that it hurt, but you cannot fathom how truly ungodly horrendous it was because your brain protects you so that you will continue to breed.  My brain must protect me from the sheer horror of change as far as my hair is concerned. And so I forget. And I do it again.