I have HAD IT. Pausing to stuff five more kisses with almonds into my mouth.
Yesterday I drove for 40 minutes through the ice and snow, conditions I really shouldn't have been driving in to get my hair cut. (The salon is only 20 minutes away, but with the weather, it took me forty. I don't drive forty minutes to go anywhere.)
I have been planning and plotting and dreaming and outright reveling in how good this hair appointment would make me feel. I'm pregnant. 21 weeks. I'm getting what I would consider big. My face feels puffy. My hair feels humongus in a very bad eighties sort of way. A little highlight, a stylish cut (nothing too crazy) and an eyebrow wax during an afternoon off? How glorious! How (since we are doing all eighties around here) AWESOME it was going to be. I wore my cute maternity jeans so I could get the full effect. Well, they are maternity, so they aren't that cute, but they are dark denim with silver stiching. Cuter than your standard maternity fare.
Here's the before: 
I came armed. Knowing my hair is stubborn and thick and wavy and doesn't like to do anything except just hang there, I did research. I found exactly what I wanted my hair to look like. I couldn't possibly find myself with a layered mess like I've done, oh too many times before if I brought a photo. Right? RIGHT?
Here it is: The one on the right. 
So we talked. About a chin length bob with bangs. Well, not exactly bangs since she was honest and said my hair would never do that. Fine. Give it to me straight. I can take it. We talked about a plan around that. She said she would do some texturizing to 'get the bulk out'.
OK, a savvy hair girl probably would have picked up on that immediately and thrown up a red flag. I didn't. I'm a trusting person dumb ass.
She started in the back. In the back, at the bottom. Where I couldn't see her cutting. I knew it was a little short, but assumed the top layers would graduate down. She was making her way up, finally I could see her and watched in slow-mo as she chopped a big old chunk of hair off the top of my head.
I shot her a look. I thought we were going to do a bob? I said picking up the strand that was now inches from the top of my head. This seems pretty short.
Oh. Is what she said.
Then she tried to bullshit me. Your hair is so thick I've got to layer this a little so it doesn't bell out too much, don't worry, it will blend in with the bottom, it will be fine.
It is not fine.
It is a nice haircut.
For someone else.
I'm not posting a picture. I can't even look at it and not cry. Which I know is kind of sad, what with all the real drama in the world, but this is my blog and really bad hair on my head makes me cry. I cried at work about it today to a coworker. (I don't even cry about work at work, and sometimes work is worth crying about.)
Picture a curly cotton ball on top of your head. Sort of like a helmet. That is totally layered and not at all a bob. Which is not what you wanted or SHOWED SOMEONE A PICTURE OF. No photo will be necessary.
I know I am not alone. I know it's just hair, already, get over it.
I'm trying. But this totally blows. It's too short to have her "fix it". There will be nothing left. I wasted an afternoon and a lot of cash. I needed this. Having a baby at 37 does nothing for your self esteem and while I am not so vain that I value my whole worth on my appearance, it could use a little boost right about now.
I'm thinking maybe that Britney shaving her head wasn't so crazy after all.
