Last week I finally reached my breaking point and was ready to give up future children in return for a haircut. I thought it would be cool to go get some euro-chic Norwegian do, but the 550 Kroner price tag was a bit out of my budget. And waiting out the 14 days with my mental institute hair, before heading home for a proper cut, did not cross my mind as a legitimate or tolerable option.

So I bought a pair of 40 Kroner scissors, waited for one of my dillusional states to hit, and went all Edward Scissorhands in the hotel bathroom. Because this somehow seemed like a much less perilous option.

And I gotta say, definately not my worst haircut ever. (That prize goes to a mid-80s attempt at punk-style spiked bangs. Followed closely by the grade two rat tail.)

10 years of post-secondary education for journalism and aviation, and all this time I've secretly been denying the Vidal Sassoon in me.