Dude Looks Like a Lady

Well, I'm becoming my worst nightmare, and that's a blogger who will write posts about her hair. Self-indulgent, no? This is exactly why I resisted starting a blog in the first place. But there will be a punchline at the end, and the joke's at my expense, so if you can't beat 'em, join 'em I suppose.

Anyway, two weeks ago, I had a hair appointment scheduled. About 24 hours before the appointment, I started getting an itch. An itch many exhausted young mothers get, I suppose. I became tired of spending an hour washing, drying and styling this thick mass of hair. It started to become known as "George's burp cloth" around here, and Baby George was pulling it out in clumps. That day, I had had one spine-tingling hair-pulling incident too many and I shrieked, "I AM CUTTING THIS HAIR OFF!" George spit up in my hair right as I was about to walk out the door for my appointment. That was all the confirmation I needed.

I took a photograph of a style I liked to my hairdresser, Jacob. Jacob is fantastic. He makes doing hair both science and art. He knows everything there is to know about hair. I don't think he'll be doing $45 haircuts for the rest of his life. And sitting in his chair is downright fun, which matters to me because he's one of the three adults I know in this town, including my husband. All that said, my hair ended up a bit shorter than I had bargained for.

When I got home, Dolley the Basset Hound started barking and howling at me. Joe said, "She's going crazy, I can't get her to stop." I replied, "Well, who could blame her? She thinks there's a strange man in her home."

I thought I was coming around to enjoy the new me until this morning. I should have known better than to go short while my toddler is trying to figure out gender identification. He walked by my room this morning while I was getting dressed, peeked in, and said teasingly, "Wook at dat wittle naked boy!"

That's it, I'm growing this out asap. Until then, I'm channeling my inner Audrey Hepburn...