An inch from bottom -2

I was impressed.
I can’t remember how long the whole process took, but I do remember imagining locks of my hair hitting the tile. They lay there looking like the thick, slimy worms we had recently dissected in biology class. Suddenly I realized there was an awful lot of hair piling up on the floor.
“Are you almost done?” I asked, attempting to mask my escalating alarm. The sound of snipping scissors was beginning to sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. I wanted her to stop cutting.
“Almost,” she said. “I just need to blow-dry and style a bit. Then we’ll have a whole new you.”
As I looked into the mirror at the wet stringy mop on top of my head, I wondered if my mother would recognize the “new me.” I didn’t even recognize myself. Thanks to this snip-happy stylist, my beautiful hair looked like a glob of wet noodles.
I avoided the mirror through the blow-dry and also while she used a whiskbroom to brush away the stray hairs from my face and neck. When the stylist had finally finished what she considered a masterpiece, I timidly opened my eyes. Did I look like Farrah Fawcett?
No way.
I looked more like Annette Funicello in a Mickey Mouse hat. All my beloved blonde streaks had disappeared. I’d never seen my hair so dark. It hung just above my shoulders. The top was layered, but the layers were so short that the hairs stuck straight up on top and straight out at my temples.
These days, I think that hairstyle is called a “mullet.” To me it was bad news and I felt like crying. I wanted to take the giant plastic bib from around my neck and throw it over my head, keeping it there until my hair grew back.
“Well?” chirped the stylist. “What do you think?”