[this isn't really a long story, I just felt like starting a new paragraph to be dramatic and to waste space] it all started a few weeks ago when some split-ended, nappy-looking hair caught my attention. It was so far away from my eyes, sitting on my lap, more specifically, that I hardly realized it was my own. Well that was it: I needed a trim. Off to Jen's I go to make the split ends turn straight-edged and paintbrush soft. Once this mission was accomplished and I was on my merry little way, I became obsessed with the softness, constantly fondling my beautiful new locks. I couldn't sleep, I didn't eat - all I wanted was to play with my hair in it's newfound healthiness...but that wasn't enough. I became addicted to the haircut rush and NEEDED more...more, More, MORE I tell you!!! A week had gone by which was a week far too long before I loyally ventured back to my beloved hairstylist and described my illness, badly needing another fix. She filled my prescription with about a 3 month dose and threw in some xanax, I mean layers, for added funkiness and ease of manageability(sp?) Minus a hearty foot of hair later, I have lived to tell the E! True Hollywood Story...er, Kat's Lame, Sick of Long, Snarly Hair Sacramento Story.
Um, yeah. The real, not-so-cool-and-dramatic story is that my hair was so long it got caught in the toilet seat and was looking nasty anyway, so I had Jen trim a few inches...then I realized how long hair would be a giant pain in the ass for work and was still pissed off about the bathroom incident, so I went back to Jen a few days ago and she took 10 more inches off and added some cute layers. It lays between my armpit and shoulder.
coming soon, the story of Logan's addiction to hand sanitizer...