The time has come when I must face the dreaded hairdressers. It is such a chore. I feel uncomfortable sitting in a chair, wrapped in a plastic poncho that restricts movement, and watch someone go at my head with a pair of sharp scissors and combs with oddly pointed ends.

However, my hair seems to have taken on a life of its own. And I don't mean that in the ooh, aah, her hair is so beautiful and shiny and sways in the wind kind of life. I mean Medusa hair. Medusa hair that is so long and heavy that it can no longer bear to even pretend it has volume with the help of mousse or hair spray.

I hate cutting my hair in the States though. Here, I pay $20 to get the worst haircuts (plural, because until recently, I was apparently a masochist) in my life. Back home, I pay a quarter that amount and get good (or at least even) haircuts. Cut by people who will actually look at your head and see if it is even instead of taking a straight ruler and just going across (yes, that's an exaggeration, but only the ruler part).

I know I could probably get better haircuts but I'm a big cheapie and $20/year is all I put aside for haircuts.