Another one bites the dust.

When I get especially bored with my life, I usually end up doing something to my hair. It usually entails cutting off a great deal of hair, changing it to a different color, whatever.

So yesterday, I had an appointment in Asheville to get this haircut that I loved that I found, actually, on the salon's Web site. It was a great deal shorter, with punky, choppy bangs, and I thought, "That's it. That's exactly what my life needs right now. I need a badass haircut."

I went to get said badass haircut and ended up with. . .imagine, if you will, Catherine Zeta-Jones in Chicago, mixed with a guy (any guy), mixed with Suri Cruise. I have literal Suri Cruise bangs. People keep telling me that I shouldn't hate it but, you know what? I do. I hate it severely.

I'm. . .not pretty anymore. I've never been, you know, the girl that walks into the room and every head turns, but I have never been offensive-looking (save those years between 12 and 14, but everyone has awkward phases.) Now? I look in the mirror and just want to cry. There is nothing feminine about me anymore. I'm not pretty, I'm not cute, I'm just. . .really, really unfortunate-looking.

So much for a happy blog post, because I feel the need to mention that I'm ridiculously lonely, too. In this office at the end of the hall, I never see anyone. People used to stop at my dek to talk to me when I was at the top of the stairs, because I was right there, and now that I'm in this office, I see a lot less of people I'd like to see more of. It's just more out of the way to come talk to me now.

I'm just unhappy today. I guess that's all I really have to say.

Tell her about it, tell her everything you feel. Give her every reason to accept that you're for real.

I discovered this evening that for the past 24 years, men have been holding out on me.

No. . .not like that.

I was looking for a plain white T-shirt to wear under a shirt I'm wearing tomorrow. I kept finding all these girl shirts with weird buttons on the sleeves or ridiculously high prices. Then I found them: men's undershirts.

I know a lot of guys wear them under, like, button-down shirts, but I'm not entirely sure why. That is, I wasn't sure why. Now I know.

Because they are ridiculously comfortable. Seriously. Luckily, they come in a pack of two, so I have an extra one to wear to bed. Which I am currently doing. It's soft and comfortable and wonderful. I only wish I'd gotten them in small instead of medium, because I have a feeling that under tomorrow's shirt, it's going to be a little big. But still. Best three bucks I even spent.

After I left work this evening, I did something I haven't done in a while: I drove through three different counties. I just wanted to drive, and to think about things. I cranked the music and sang along and thought.

One conclusion I came to is that I absolutely will go to the company Christmas party even though the Person Who Hates me will be there. I'm going to put on my awesome black and white polka-dotted dress, my snazzy red heels, and bring my cousin as my date and it will be awesome. Yes. Period.

I was going to color my hair tonight, but I just got back like 45 minutes ago (11:15-ish) and I didn't want to invoke the wrath of my insane neighbor. So I'll just wear a hat tomorrow and color it tomorrow night. I hate that my roots grow so fast, because I have to do this often, and it's the biggest pain. However, it's less of a pain than hating my natural hair color. I wouldn't be so incredibly self-conscious about it except one of the reporters feels the need to point out when my roots are growing in. I'm aware I shouldn't let that bother me, but it does. What I really, really want is to put a bright color in along with the dark brown. Like. . .red or pink or something. However, I feel like I'm past the age where that's acceptable. I have to be "professional" now.

But dark brown hair would be perfect with pink highlights! I'm so mad I missed this stage of rebellion. Instead, I got my cartiledge pierced.

This guy I know, Mike, said I should get different colored highlights in my hair. He thought it would look cool, but it sounds like entirely too much effort. I just really want red. Not the kind of red my hair is now, but Crayola red. How awesome would that be?

Also, if I had a technicolor color in my hair, it might not match everything.

Please put the doctor on the phone, 'cause I'm not making any sense. (Blame everyone but me for this mess.)

So I got this haircut yesterday.

I have desperately needed a haircut for. . .probably more than a year.  It was frizzy and unruly and ridiculous.  Carrie had told me about this place near where Wal-Mart used to be.  Since we just got a new Super Wal-Mart, the shopping center where the old Wal-Mart used to be is still there, but with considerably less traffic.

I went to this place and, when I walked in, it kind of smelled like someone had been smoking in there.  Ok, not a big deal.  I gave the lady my name (I was the only person there) and sat down in one of the chairs.

About 30 seconds later, this guy, this true mountain man complete with denim and flannel vest, baseball cap and awesome pornstache, calls my name and brings me back to the chair.  When I had first walked in, I thought he and this other guy in there were maintenance men.  Then I thought he was just going to, I don't know, bring me back to the chair before the person who was actually going to cut my hair came over.

False.

This guy, who I think is somehow related to Larry the Cable Guy because the resemblance was UNCANNY, was the one who was going to cut my hair.  Truly, the only difference between Larry the Cable Guy and my hairdresser was the pornstache and lack of a goatee on the hairdresser.  The pornstache, though, was truly a work of art.

Now, at this point, I'm a little apprehensive.  This guy, who looked like he was getting ready to go out and. . .I don't know, chop logs or shoot bears or skin deer for fun, was going to cut my hair.  Honestly?  I kept expecting that it was a joke.  I was waiting for one of the women to come over, laugh, and say that her name was Shirley, and she'd be my hairdresser.

It was then that I made a decision.  I could have asked for someone else, but then I thought, you know, that would be kind of bitchy.  It's just hair.  Since I was only asking for a couple inches trimmed off, there were only so many ways the haircut could go wrong.  Besides, it would grow back if anything tragic happened to it.  And besides, the experience would give me more material for my eventual novel and, at the very least, something to blog about.

Nope.  This guy put the plastic cape thing around my neck and pulled my hair back.  He was. . .surprisingly gentle with my hair.  Now that I think about it, I did find that interesting.  Looking at him, you'd have expected him to grab a handful of hair and yank it back.  But actually, he was very careful.  He told me he wished he had my hair (meaning, thick, and a lot of it) because he was losing his.  Then he explained that he'd be wetting my hair down and combing it out so it could be ready to cut.  Then he asked me if I wanted it all one length or if I wanted it layered.  Then he asked me about my bangs and I told him I was growing them out after a disastrous haircut two years ago.

The whole thing, really and truly, was so incredibly bizarre and surreal that I honestly thought it was some kind of elaborate practical joke.

But I showed him how much I wanted cut off (about two inches, and trust me, I have so much hair, it's not even noticeable) and he started trimming.  We talked about politics, what I do for a living, how I like living here and how nice the weather was yesterday.  He was. . .kind of awesome.

I said something about how annoying it was that my hair gets so frizzy, and he told me that, since I color it, that's a common problem, but a good way to help combat that is with a good leave-in conditioner.  Then we talked about conditioner for a while.

Now, I have had my hair cut by men before.  I had this hairdresser, who I believe was named Vince, back in Raleigh that worked at the Great Clips near my house, and I would always request him, because he always did a wonderful job.  He was also the stereotypical kind of guy that you'd expect to do hair.  I'm not being gayist here, but it's true - typically, men who do hair are gay.  But the guy last night?  If he was gay, there was nothing stereotypical about him at all, except for the hairdressing thing.  He really looked like the kind of guy that wore flannel year-round and had raw rabbit meat from a rabbit he'd skinned that morning for breakfast, along with. . .I don't know. . .deer urine or something.

But I left that place with exactly what I'd asked for - 2 inches of my hair cut off - which is so rare.  I don't remember the last time I went to get my hair cut and actually got what I asked for.  I'm not sure I'd go back there, but it was kind of an amazing experience.

Tomorrow is the last official home game for both high school football teams, and I'm going to the one that I'd most like to see win.  Between the two teams, the one I'm going to go see even though it's in the next town over is the non-snobby team.  The other one, everyone in that school, teachers and students alike, seem to have this weird sense of entitlement.  

Carrie's leaving on the 21st and I realized today that I'm. . .not going to really have anyone to talk to at work anymore, t have lunch with.  I mean, I have people I'm friendly with, and people I'd. . .consider friends, but you know how things are sometimes?  When they're complicated?  It's like that. 

Plus, and this is one of the things that drives me the most up the wall, but that office?  Is so freaking juvenile.  There's one person younger than me in that place (she's 22.  With two kids.  She's engaged.), then me, then Carrie, and then a couple people downstairs are in their 20s, but upper 20s.  One of them is married and the other is getting married.  I'm the only person there in my 20s not in a relationship, so I can't really relate to most of the other people.  Upstairs, the person closest to my age is 6 years older than me.

I guess I got off the "juvenile" part of it, but it's like I told Aron (one of the guys downstairs) yesterday - in that place, it's like I never left high school.  The cliques are there, the cattiness is there, the immaturity is there. . .I can't stand it.  I'm sorry, but being mean to me to be "funny," isn't.  It's stupid.  And it hurts my feelings.

It's at times like this that I really wish I could talk to you like I used to.  I miss that and I could really use it right now.