Her eyes roved across my face. “Upper lip wax,” she declared – a statement, not a question. “Uh, actually, I just want a haircut,” I replied. She silently looked at me, raised her eyebrows, and I caved. And that’s how I walked out of Shear Image on Geary carefree and

Inspired by Sarah’s guide-to-cutting-your-own-hair post last week, I went digging in my really old and disgusting clear closet organizer thing where I knew an aging pair of shears were buried somewhere.  See, I used to have bangs, and I would always cut my bangs myself because one thing I flat-out

I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of ready to be a grown-up and clean out the walk-in closet in my apartment, the doors of which stay perpetually shut to hide the staggering amount of sheer crap I stashed in there the first day I moved in and never

I love me an overstuffed bookshelf but let’s face it, books are pricey (especially new ones) and storage space lacking.  So, the library it is.  Don’t get me wrong, I really love the library: its musty smell, its quiet’”it’s a core-of-society kind of place’”plus remember what a rite of passage

I’ve seen my future, and it’s pretty hairless.  My dad…bald.  My mom’s dad…bald.  The great Magic 8-Ball of genetics has pretty much already foretold my destiny: Outlook Not So Good.  As a result of this, I like to try new shit with my hair every so often just because I