…and the rest is history

I thought I was smart. I thought I was sensible. I thought I was capable.

I thought wrong.

Despite the fact that T was in school last week Wednesday and I was in charge of the feeding and care of the the boy, I scheduled a haircut. Normally, I schedule them weeks in advance because I know me. If I don’t schedule the next appointment before I walk out of the salon, I won’t call until I feel like I need a cut IMMEDIATELY. Unfortunately, for some reason I didn’t schedule in advance last time, so I couldn’t be choosy with either the time or stylist.

Sigh. I like my stylist. I really do. I just wish everyone else liked her a little less.

So, the day of the appointment came, and I nervously stashed toys and and J’s favorite Raffi DVD in his tote. Hand in hand, we walked into the salon to the chorus of the usual high-pitched baby-adoration noises and I set his tote down in the children’s area, which was stocked with a TV, chairs and lots of toys.

“Julie! Come on over!” my stylist enthused.

Shit. The over she spoke of is not within viewing distance of the kidlet nook. I forgot…since I didn’t schedule my appointment early and didn’t get my normal stylist, I was stuck in a chair in the opposite corner of the salon.

So, I grabbed J like the 25 pound sack of potatoes he his, and carried him along with me to the chair. Yes, J sat on my lap for the 20 minutes it took to cut my hair.

Well, butcher my hair is more like it.

I have to say, I didn’t give great directions because I was more concerned with keeping the boy still enough so the stylist didn’t chop of her finger. But still, she’s done my hair before. Before, when it was my preferred big and bushy. Back when people said things like, “I love that cut, Julie!” Not like now when they say, “Did you…do something with your hair?”

She took off way too much. Way. I’m not one for much fussing with it–I usually dry it while reading blogs, arrange the bangs in the bathroom mirror and go. Now, just so that it won’t look like I stuck my finger in a light socket, I must scrunch carefully, dry on low speed and low heat, spray, scrunch some more, arrange, curl and spray some more.

And, after all that effort?

Ehh.

Just ehh.

I wish I were a little kid again and I could take a scissors to my hair and everyone would just think it was the most interesting thing ever. Why did I have to grow up?