Bad Hair Day

Something crapped in my hair. That's what it looks like anyway. It looks like something crapped in my hair and then I proceeded to style it with a hand blender. It looks like I am wearing a globby, gnarly ball of hair on top of my head. I guess that's what I get for being too lazy to wash it last night, but damn, I was SOOOOO tired I just wanted to go to sleep. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so.

What is even more irritating is that I recently cut my hair because I was tired of my curly, one length, hippy-dippy style. I wanted something shorter and sassier that would make me feel more "hip" and "with it". I've worn my hair short before and it always worked for me so I called up my old hair dresser. I say "old" because he was the guy I used to go to before I had kids and was working full-time. Back then I would drop a HUGE wad of cash for a cut, color, and style and it was worth every penny. I would simply walk into his salon, sit in his magic chair, sip my espresso, and without uttering a word he would transform me. I would walk out of his salon feeling like a Goddess and get gobs of compliments on my fantastic cut and fabulous color from envious co-workers and friends. But, like I said before, that was in my pre-kiddo days -for both of us. Now he has two chillins' of his own and I swear to God - he's lost his edge. He's gone soft or something. I have been back to him twice and each time I've left with a blow-dryed, hair- sprayed helmet head. I call it the PTA mom style. The first time it happened I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Afterall he does have two kids, one being a 4-month-old. I figured he was low on sleep and if that was the case, then I was just lucky he didn't accidently lop off my ear. But I was unhappy with the cut again after the second visit. I hate to do what I now know must be done, I must find another stylist. If I'm going to spend $50 bucks on a hair cut - which is a lot to spend on hair when you have kids - then I HAVE TO, NEED TO, DESERVE TO feel and look like a damn DIVA when I strut my junk out of his door. For just a little while, I don't want to look like a mom. Know what I mean?