And By "Trim," I Mean Half My Hair

In the past two weekends, I've been to Ireland, Stratford, and Oxford. But what have I focused on?

My hair. Because I'm vain that way.

Before this past Thursday, I had hair that I could in theory Lady Godiva over my bosom should I so chose to do so, but I hadn't had it cut since Christmas break. Which normally isn't a big deal, but it had gotten to the point where I was sitting in class and peeling apart the split ends. I decided to make a venture to one of London's cheaper salons (which are still more expensive than the Schilling-Douglas I'm used to frequenting back home). I went to Supercuts first because I figured they were cheap and, well, super. Turns out their water was screwed up and they were waiting for a plumber. Being the impatient girl that I am, I decided to hit up Abella's Hair & Beauty on Cromwell, because that was the only other cheap(ish) looking salon I had seen around. I wandered in, sat down, and asked for a trim from the tiny Arabic man inside. I can only assume he was Abella. He showed me what he was trimming off.

He then proceeded to chop of 6 more inches of my hair.

Odd enough, he shampooed me after he hacked off my locks. And then blow dried it and over charged me. Weird. But I honestly can't complain too much, I sort of love it. I didn't want short hair, but considering the last time I had hair this short was senior year of high school, it's sort of fun.