Lesson to a so-called Rock Star

It has happened. The muses and the stars told me not to do it, but I disregarded them. One would think that receiving several signs against my actions might have persuaded me, but still I stubbornly held fast. The Buick broke down as we ventured in that direction. Still, I was blind. I waited for nearly three hours to bring company along the way. They didn't want to go, so why did I? Why? Why did I do it? I kick myself now, and daydream about how things would have been otherwise... but alas!
I've done it-- I've cut my hair. And there is no going back.
Allow me to describe the damage, the situation, and the events in the order in which they occured:
In my previous post I mentioned briefly that I had a desire to cut my hair. Yesterday I acted upon that impulse. A definite mistake.
It began when Kristian mentioned that a long lost friend of ours works at Supercuts. Just by the name you should know these things shouldn't be tampered with. One's hair is one's dignity. Your haircut must be bad if it is described as 'super'. But I trailed along to the local Supercuts store. And it was there that it happened.
It began as a simple trim, only a few inches, as the girl cutting it (not the friend) had long, raggy, locks with too many fake highlights and not enough conditioning. My first impulse was not to trust her judgement. It would have been a wise decision, had I stuck with it. Instead I decided that she hadn't gone through beauty school for nothing, and she probably knew what she was doing. An hour and a half later, she swiveled me around in my chair and I gazed with shocked horror at the image reflected at me in the glass.
There in the mirror, was me. I had short hair- shoulder length- choppily and chunkily layered in the front. It looked as if she'd chopped it off with a knife and fork, and not a pair of scissors. But that wasn't the worst part. The crowning glory: a set of teensy little bangs, aligned scraggily and semi-straight all the way across my forehead. To one who already has a round face, this 'do' did not do it for me at all! In fact, it was hard to believe this was not just a bad dream.
The girl teased and inspected the round-brushed, blow-dried, froofed-up, mess she'd created.
"Do you like it?" she asked, cautiously. Perhap she'd noticed the horrified look on my face, or the distressed looks I kept tossing in Kristian and Koseli's direction.
"My bangs..." I began politely, "Are a little too short. Can you... do something to make them... look longer? Or something?"
She tried. I'll give her that. But by the time she finsihed I was convinced this girl had never gone to school to become a cosmetologist. A monkey could have cut my hair better than she did. The end product looked something like a cross between Rosie O' Donnel's hair and Pink's. And the more I complained, the shorter my bangs became. At this point they were about an inch long, and because of my cowlick they stuck straight up.
"Let me just trim those up a bit," said the girl nervously, obviously aware that she'd ruined a head of perfectly healthy hair.
"No!"
I was done.
I quickly got out of the chair, brushed nearly eight inches of my beautiful murdered hair out of my lap, and bound over to Koseli and Kristian. I was close to tears.
They told me it wasn't so bad. Besides, they said, I looked like a rock star.
"But I'm not!" I protested. And it's true. I'm as close to a rock star as... nothing.
My anger and frustration was evident enough to give me a full refund of my haircut. They may have been able to give me back my money, but that doesn't help. I want my hair back.
Today I am going to the mall to buy a vast variety of thick headbands, hair clips, and mousse.
I may have rock star bangs, but nobody will see them until they've sufficiently grown out.
It's like Paul said: "What's the difference between a bad haircut and a good haircut?"
"What?"
"About four weeks."