I am in agony, dear reader. Oh hear my cry. Hearken thou unto me:
I believed I mentioned a time or two that I have special ish-oooze with my hair. Namely: I care about how it looks. For a long time, when my kids were in diapers, I didn't care how my hair looked. I was glad to have hair and my thoughts about it ended there. After all, I had sippy cups to fill, nose-sucker-outers to clean and daily trips to the Wal-Marts for diapers, whole milk and pureed peas. Because, obviously, in my sleep deprived state, I neglected my plan-ahead gene.
But now that everyone in the Jubilant household can (pretty much) wipe their own bottoms, I have renewed interest in not looking like I just rolled out of bed. Rejoice! And again I say, rejoice! The Calm One is so proud. And relieved. He no longer has to uphold the title of "better half." A title he was never fully comfortable with.
I'm just sayin'.
Anyhoo, I decided a few weeks ago, to let my hair grow out of it's cute, but edgy 'do. I liked it, but it wasn't my best look. And I would no longer have to deal with shocked looks from various
So, the agony is that while I am waiting for my hair to grow out, I can't do a single thing with it. No amount of clips, mousse or hairspray can tame these unruly tresses. It's as if my hair has a mind of it's own as opposed to just sitting atop my own mind. I am truly at the point where I am ready to go back to short and spiky just so I can be put out of my hair misery. But in a month or two, I'd just be right back here where I am now. Harried - in so very many ways.
And freakishly, perpetually in a state of hair disarray.
Whatever shall I do, dear reader? Whatever shall I do?
(No melodramatic plays were harmed in the extraction and reinsertion of certain key phrases in this post)