Just call me Farrah

Getting your hair cut at a new salon is a calculated risk.

Getting your hair cut at a new place in your very Polish neighborhood is an even bigger calculated risk.

Getting your hair cut at a new place in your very Polish neighborhood by a woman named Ula (not kidding) whose first language is, naturally, Polish is the grand-daddy of all risks (this is my life we’re talking about, ok?).

Here’s the picture I showed Ula.

Now, in defense of what I’m about to show you, there IS a bit of flip to that hairstyle. But apparently what Ula saw when she looked at this, was the following:

Or, rather, as I imagine Ula imagined I would wear this hair:

Now, I’m not mad. In fact, there is so much kick to my hair that I literally scurried home with joy to take a photo and tell you guys about it. In fact, the only thing that could have made me happier would have been if someone would have actually shouted, “Hey, Farrah!” at me on the way home. I would have been all like, “He-ey!

Which is a big deal. I don’t respond to cat-callers.

My favorite part? When Ula started explaining to me how versatile this haircut is. That I could flip it out or under. As if I would ever want to do anything other than this!!!!

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Justine, isn’t your hair so sassily styled that you can’t even really tell if you like the cut?

Well, yes. Yes, it is. But I have faith in Ula. I have faith in my neighborhood. I have faith in my calculated risk.

And if I’m wrong? Well, I guess then I can just pursue that dream of being a sexy 70s crime-fighting spy, now can’t I?

4 thoughts on “Just call me Farrah

  1. bah, love it! I never even get hairstylists blow dry my hair because I’ve had numerous experiences where my style ends up like a Miss America contestant (and not in a good way—think the ’80s times 10).

Comments are closed.