Tuesday, May 20, 2014

It is time. Or it will be on Thursday.

The time has come, just as I knew it would.

The Hair. It must go.

I've been growing it out for about three years now, and, predictably, I'm completely sick of it. It happens this way. I grow it, I cut it, I grow it, I cut it. I think it's boredom. Or the sick and twisted desire to drive M completely crazy. I am being good this time, though. I let him know. I even showed him the sample photos I found to take to my stylist. Maybe let him think he has a say in the matter. I'm all about teamwork and compromise, after all.

The appointment is Thursday. Which is THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW. This is too long to wait, obviously, becasue I have no patience and once I decide I want it gone then I want it gone now dammit. But I will wait. Because I really, really love my stylist and therefore I have no choice. But I'm not happy about it.

I'm not going back to the pixie cut, at least not yet. It'll be drastic, but not like that time when we were first married and I cut off all my hair when M was out of town and when I picked him up from the airport he looked right past me and then came back to me and screamed, "What did you do to your hair?!" That was pretty funny. He's getting older now, though, and I want to minimize shocks to his ticker, so I started easing him into the idea about a week ago. Poor guy. He knows once the idea is floated that's pretty much it. He so loves long, disgusting, ratty hair, and abhors cute, adorable, flattering, short styles. I feel bad that I keep dashing his hopes, but not bad enough to keep this mess o' fuzz on my head.

I'm pretty proud of myself. This is the longest I've had it since we got married. I could tie it in a knot under my chin if I wanted. (I don't.) (But I could, which is, in some twisted way, impressive.) (To me, anyway.) I can put it into a weensy, curly ponytail that's about as big around as my pinky. I stick it in two fun, curly pigtails that everyone compliments me on but which I cannot wear to work and be taken seriously as a professional. I could put it up in a banana clip if those things were back in style and I wanted to recreate the 80s. (I do not. Most emphatically, I do not.) Still, go it must, in the name of creativity and newness and fun. For me, at least. M will sigh grudgingly and say things like, "Whatever makes you happy, Princess," because he is a good man and because he knows I will do it anyway no matter what he says.

At least I'm not dying it purple.


(I'm not, I'm not! It was a joke! Calm down there, M. Maybe take a baby aspirin.)


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