I've hosted more bad haircuts than I can stomach admitting. I mean. Seriously. Bangs? My forehead is 2 inches tall. Blonde. Blonde?! No. Just, NO. The ripe ole age of 27 has been the realization year for me. You know the one. It finally clicks that you just cannot pull off certain colors, hairstyles, etc. Is it maturity? Or giving up? Conceding to your genetics. Science has won, I will not be an editorial goddess. Either way, I'm happy it occured to me to just stop trying to make yellow work and embrace my mouse brown hair and death pallor. I've stopped forcing the thigh high boot. Chubby legs do not a sexy silhouette make.
Work what your mama gave you. Or something.
Or just wear black and grey and cover yourself in jewels.
Enjoy the photos of the hairstyles I would have tried in the past, and now know how disgusting I would look sporting them. Yes, sporting.
These ladies are all muses, known for their hair. I'm going to leave that to them and rock my sad/I'm growing out my pixie cut, ponytail.
And I'm OK with that.
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