Ever since blades snipped away at my once curly locks, my mother has almost always been the powerful source behind each cut. At age 13, adorned in an unforgivable painful streaking cap, my mother gave me pink streaks as a celebratory transition into teenagehood. Aged 14 I asked her to dye it all blonde, only to have it turn orangey green after swim training. Then came the impromptu balayage in year 9, accompanied by a somewhat awkward fringe which recent;y grew out to the same length as the rest of my hair.  In other words, I've managed to avoid many uncomfortable drips to the salon - such are the bonuses of having a scissor savy mumma. That was, up until a few days ago. Thinking my hair was in desperate need of change, I ventured out to the unknown territory that is the salon chair. Boy was I wrong.

The entire experience was more awkward than Paris Hilton's singing career. If the harsh lighting isn't enough to begin with, the final, often forced, acknowledgement of approval is too much for my awkward little soul to handle..

So in light of my recent experience I've decided to take it back to the days of school camps - braids galore. With splendour just around the corner, this life changing decision couldn't have come at a better time. Welcome to cornrow city. 

Super versatile in nature, braids never let you down. Too lazy to dry your hair? just braid it for some lucious waves. Hairs too greasy? Just braid it. Hair's too neat? Just braid, scrunch, spray, release. Even if your hair is too unruly, just muster up a neat braid.

Braids are almost as good as dorito chicken.

So in my case of post-salon blues over pre-visit reminiscing, I seek solace in the futuristic aura of romanticism evoked from such a simple hairstyle.



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