Hair stylists of America, why are you in league against me?

Really. This is bad haircut number two since leaving my beloved Whantana behind in Berkeley. Why though? Why?

I mean, this time...I tried. Believing that I had learned my lesson from last time (aka, the "unhappy poodle" or the "glorified mullet") I even went so far as to arrive at the hair place with picture in hand. I spoke to the stylist, she was Russian, I figured "somehow, this is fate. This good woman would never lead my hair astray. I am glad that I have come." and other solemnities.

But no. It appears that a picture of hair that you would like, in actuality, is meaningless. It might as well have been a picture of Queen Elizabeth II. Or Bruce Willis. Or Homestar Runner. Because apparently there is an unspoken hair stylist lingo that I am no privy to. Probably involving gesticulations and significant looks. From what I can tell, it looks something like this:

Me: So I printed this out, is this alright?
Stylist: Of course! This will look very nice on you, it will frame your face well...etc. (Translation: Ha! Ah, yes! You would like me to cut the bottom veeeeery close to your head, so much so that you fear for your life as my swift razor just misses grazing your skin. And then, you would like me to add hundreds of layers on top, so that the whole upper part will burgeon out, as if floating around your head like a mischievous little cloud. The whole effect will, of course, be mushroom-like.)

:::sigh:::

it will grow out...