A few years ago I got a terrible, horrible haircut at a Salon in Puyallup, Washington.

I went from having kind of wild looking wavy hair ( which was styled that way on purpose ) that went really wild and crazy because during the COVID-19  lockdown I couldn’t get my hair done, so it got out of control.

I went to this salon ( across the street from where I parked my Jeep at the train station)  because I noticed that the women walking in and out of it all had long hair so I thought I they could style my hair.

HA.

My millennial stylist evened my layers which made my hair flat and then she gave me the same exact short bob that my Mom had, that my Grand Aunt had, that the little old ladies that caught the bus at my stop near my home that lived at the Senior Housing complex had.

She turned me into a little old lady.

I eventually got a hold of my regular stylist and he fixed the damage, but it took forever to grow out.

Here’s the thing.

When I looked into the mirror and saw that old lady bob on my head, I stopped wearing makeup, I would throw on a tshirt and a sweater and I didn’t touch my regular clothes for months.

I lost the bop in my hop if you will.

Oh. And the cut was so out of character for me that my family had a mini-intervention because they thought I super depressed and in my depression had hacked my hair off.

I wish I could say that I didn’t let something like a horrific haircut that aged me 20 years did not push me off the edge and that I embraced this look and made a grand statement with it.

But I didn’t.

I really wish I had.

Inspired By The Prompt: JAUNTY