Well, I got my hair cut last night.
I imagine that there are people out there who can get their hair cut without hours, and perhaps even days of research and deliberation and sometimes even a list of pros and cons. I admire those people, but I am not one of them. I started thinking about a haircut over the weekend, and planned to dedicate a solid chunk of Monday evening to researching potential styles. But then Matt texted me around dinnertime and we had the following conversation:
Matt: "I just wanted to remind you that your favorite show is on tonight."
Matt: "Your other favorite show. First Week In. That new show about prisoners and their first week in jail."
I'd like to just take a moment here and explain that my new-found love for television shows that focus on prisoners, police activity, and secret felonious whiskey making surprises even me. However, I cannot get enough. I suppose I am just fascinated by the whole criminal process - the arrest and the prison sentence and even the strategy of people who secretly make whiskey in the woods.
And so I did not get any hair research done on Monday night because I was too busy watching people being booked for various charges and outfitted in color coded jumpsuits while trying to convince the guards for some phone time so they could call their bail bondsman.
On Tuesday night I was able to talk hair with Emily, and she provided the strong, sisterly support that I needed in my moment of follicular weakness. After about forty five minutes of hair talk, I told her that "right now it kind of looks like GIRLFRIEND NEED A HAIRBRUSH AND PERHAPS A 360 DEGREE MIRROR."
And she said that "Maybe GIRLFRIEND NEEDS TO CALM IT DOWN, AFTER ALL IT IS JUST HAIR."
She's right. Girlfriend needed some PERSPECTIVE.
That bring us to Wednesday morning. Wednesday was a depressing, doozy of a morning at work.
A deproozy, if you will.
That deproozy led me to the courthouse to get something signed at about 10:00 on Wednesday, and as I walked through security the older gentleman manning the metal detector cheerfully greeted me with, "Morning, kiddo!"
TIME FOR A GROWN UP HAIR CUT.
As I sat on the bench outside the courtroom, I was trying to get my mind off of the sad reason that I was there and focus my thoughts on something positive. So I called my hairdresser and made an appointment for last night, and then looked up pictures of my hair idol, Kristin Cavallari, so I could tell the hairdresser EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED.
And when I sat down in the salon chair at 6:00 sharp I simply said, "I need help."
All that. They days of thought. The research. The pictures. The technical terminology like "choppy layers"
and "sharp angles."
and "sharp angles."
Luckily the hairdresser read my mind because she gave me a new hairstyle that is exactly what I was imagining.
And the best part is that while no one called me Kristin Cavallari today, no one called me kiddo either.