There have been unfortunate incidences borne of trust, desperation and/or drunken folly; there have been incidences that have netted magnificent results, borne of many of the same things.
I have cried after insisting that Chris cut my hair NOW NOW NOW NOW, because I couldn’t take my growing-out bangs hanging in my eyes any longer. I have taken a day off work more than once after a botched home-highlighting debacle. (The box promised glowing, natural tendrils. I ended up looking as though an octopus suctioned itself to my noggin.) I have bullied many a sister and friend into chopping me up, insisting that it would be easy to coax a short, shaggy, cute coif out of their inexperienced, unqualified, shaking hands. Once I ended up with a short, shaggy, cute coif (thank you, Karla), and once I ended up looking like a raging, unstyled lunatic and had no recourse but to shave it all off. (Thanks a whole fucking lot, Brenda)
Once in a while I go to an acutal, licensed stylist, and once in a while I get what I actually wanted.