So I wrote a poem about it. Because what else?
Dear Terrible Haircut (and its inflictor-in-chief),
I’m not one to complain, but this ’do’s giving me grief.
I showed you a photo of subtle layers and blunt ends,
And yet here I am: season one of Rachel from Friends.
I’m not sure where we got lost in translation,
But at no point do I recall asking to make a wig donation.
Did you hear “creative freedom!” when I said “just a trim”?
I don’t even want to know what this shit looks like after a swim.
Take a risk, they said! Get bangs! Get a lob!
I should have run for the hills when you called a blowout a “blow job.”
Your technique was superb; your dusting not at all sloppy,
I’m just saying, I don’t think even the Perfect Storm was this choppy.
You ta-da’d the big reveal, and I’m sorry if I lost it,
But were you picturing Farrah while I was under the faucet?
Look, I’m sure you’re a visionary, a well-trained artiste,
But making this mop work is going to take a f*ckton of Batiste.
Some tips I’ve now learned if you’re due for a cut:
When she whips out a razor, don’t think you have to keep your mouth shut.
Bring more than one photo, because as much as we’d all like to fathom,
Real talk: You don’t have the same face as Rachel McAdams.
Dusting! Color melt! Undercut! Flamboyage!
If they use words you don’t know, expect complete sabotage.
Treat your stylist like your therapist, and tell them all your problems,
If you have High Maintenance Hair, they need to know before they can solve ’em.
Don’t use relative terms like “long” or “short,”
Be exact and precise if you want to hold court;
And last but not least, before you have a full-blown attack:
Remember it’s just hair. It’ll always grow back.