For some reason, the very nice but misguided folks who've cut my hair of late think I can pull off the choppy, layered look. The kind that says, "Are you READY TO RAAAWWWK, DETROIT?!"
I'm not Joan Jett, people. I'm not even Joan Lunden. I'm edgy as a bagel.
The conversations with the stylist (lordy, call them hairdressers at your peril) typically go like this:
STYLIST: I think some more layers in here will be fun!
ME: It won't be too severe, right?
STYLIST: No, no. Wispy. Sweet. Fun!
ME: That "fun" is scaring me.
STYLIST: Just some architectural chunks in there.
(Pause while I blink and try to parse this. Stylists love to use words like "architectural" that have a different meaning in the parallel reality of chairs that can go up and down via a foot pedal)
ME: Okayyyy... Will it be subtle?
STYLIST: Oh, yeah. Subtle. But fun!
And I end up with a haircut that makes me look like I should be holding Courtney Love's purse as she yarfs into a Vegas toilet somewhere.
I'm in meetings where I want to be taken seriously as a Credible Creative Person and I'm now rockin' a 'do that says Off Her Meds and possibly Flight Risk.