Seeking Executor of my Hair

Ally: Are you unemployed and looking for a thankless job that pays you no cash money? Search no more! I have just the self-absorbed arsehole to fill your employer needs.

That self-absorbed arsehole is yours truly, and I’m completely adorable over email (where we would base all of our communication since I hate the phone and leaving the suburbs consists of ten years in planning).

The job opening is personal assistant to my hair, where you are basically responsible for making all decisions in regards to each and every strand of locks on my head. I need the help, friends. It’s obvious I cannot make decisions on my own anymore. Here’s a rundown of why.

1. Sometimes I think I should get red highlights.

Let me show you how that turned out…

Do you see highlights? I see fire engine red hair. Which…fine…but that’s now what I went in for. I can be convinced to do anything when it comes to my hair. My current hairstylist had a nightmare in front of her trying to repair this colour decision.

2. I promise myself I will never get bangs again.

Hey, loser! Waving right back atcha! How those bangs treating you?

Oh, right! The side braid. Which comes into effect approximately two weeks after you chop your bangs off and remains in place for approximately two years after you chop your bangs off until you decide to chop your bangs off again. Also in the “real-life-bangs” style rotation is this lovely up-do…

I think this was the red fading out? Or maybe I decided to go “back to my natural colour of brown”? Whatever the hair situation, clearly it called for wine.

3. I’m tired of my top-knot. I need a snazzy style!

Let me be very clear here. This is no fault of my stylist. I love her, she’s perfect, the cut is perfect; however, I am not.

I went in and declared myself to be 100 per cent responsible for my postpartum hormones. I’m not 100 per cent sure that was a good call, but it was mine to make. I was determined to get short hair. I was going to look like this:

But, Ally, you all shout. You are no supermodel. No matter, I reply. I shall chop it off anyway because in my head I look entirely different than what the mirror tells me.

At first, I looked fabulous. Mostly because my hair stylist is fabulous.

And you know, there are days that I can sort of rock it out…

For the most part though, I am experiencing what every single person who cares about me told me I should expect: Short hair is not for the faint of heart or people who are too lazy in life. Also? I am hair style challenged. Meaning my hairstylist can spend hours with me showing me how to curl my hair with a flat iron or style my short hair without requiring a blow dryer and I will Still. Fuck. It. Up.

To Sum: Nothing but a top-knot.

The predominant role of my hair employee is to keep his/her eye trained to my Pinterest page. If they see anything that deviates from the following, they need to lock me in a room and throw things at me.

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Got it? You’re hired.

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P.S. I found a photo of my “perfect” hair. I’m so sorry to have hurt you 2011 hair. Rationality was never my strong suit.