So. Missy got her hair cut. She looked fresh, fly, fabulous. Seriously. (If she had any public links I could use to demonstrate, I would link those to prove the point. Sadly, she does not.)

It made me want a haircut. Okay, fine. I wanted a haircut anyway, but seeing how great Missy’s new cut was just made that desire to be fierce with a super-dee-dooper new ‘do all that much worse.

Perhaps a little explanation is in order here. This is how it works with me and my hair: Grow it long-ish (usually a few inches past shoulder-length). Get sick of it. Debate going short again knowing that cutting it all off will wind up in weeping. Chop it off to a couple of inches all over anyway. Weep over loss of long, glorious hair. Start growing it back out. Rinse. Repeat.

Well. Thanks to Missy, I have broken the cycle at last. (Please ignore the fact that the look on my face is exactly like that of a mental patient who’s gone a very long time with no meds. My husband lives to get those kind of “candid” shots. Focus on the hair, my poppies.)

And that is without any styling of any sort. No products in my hair, no blow drying. Nothing. (Hey, Missalicious? See why the perm thing is sort of a moot issue once I cut it? LOL.) I love this cut. I will love it even more once I go in and start playing with it a little.

Damn. It feels good to be a gangsta.