Below, proof that I should not be allowed to touch my own hair when in a fragile/bored emotional state.  I came home from work a few days ago, thought, “You know what I really need right now?  Bangs!” and proceeded to spontaneously weed-whack my fringe.  “How hard could it be?”  Famous last words.  Um, so…hair stretches, didja know?  And Jolie’s hand is not so steady.  And, apparently, I am blind.  The end result is bangs that look like they were chopped by a drunk two year old; if you’ll examine the bottom picture, you can see that the hair above my left eyebrow is clearly about an inch and a half shorter than that above my right. 

Beauty expert, indeed. 

As for the color…well, sure, it’s day-glo orange and oddly patchy (I was going for Miranda from SATC-meets-Jessica Rabbit, but ended up with red bangs, orange layers, and weird, randomly-placed blonde highlights), but I don’t care–I love being a redhead!  Maybe next time I’ll keep my mitts to myself and let a real hairstylist have a go.