I'm going to give you a run down of my daily routine to explain why I buzzed my locks during my adolescent years. It takes me about an hour to blow dry this mop. Brush in shower, towel dry, put on heat protectant stuff so I don't get those little squiggly hairs all up on my noggin like a baby with peach fuzz, blow dry until I'm sweating so bad I have to change my shirt again, more heat protectant stuff, then curling iron. And trust me... the curling iron (or straightener) is EXTREMELY necessary. Otherwise I'm taking it back to the '70s with my afro puff.
I do my hair in front of a white-curtained window. This is strategic for two reasons:
1.) it lets enough light in that I can see the smoke rising up from my head if I've held the curling iron on it for JUST too long (hence the baby peach fuzz.) And 2.) I know when my hair is done when I look at it against the white background and I figure it would be easy enough to Photoshop a silhouette around the old bean with the pen tool. (Graphic design is both a curse and a blessing.)
Because of the high maintenance diva wig, summer is flat out scrunch season. My blow dryer will not be turned on from June 1st to October 1st. I go through about 4 cans of mousse a month. Good thing my favorite is White Rain (dollar store, what what!)
So during high school when I had to get up at the butt crack o' dawn, scarf down my Lucky Charms during a quick episode of Sister Sister and speed out the door, the pixie cut was a necessary and practical move for this lady.
So there you have it, folks. That's the story of the pixie cut. Not that I'm insecure about the fact that I was mistaken for a boy and felt the need to explain myself. Not at all.
|My friend El and I after a softball game. Hawt!|