My hair and I have a tenuous relationship at best. It's curly--or probably more accurate, mostly curly. Provided I give it all sorts of love in the form of curling sprays and diffused hairdrying, we get along. Mostly. There are the inevitable days that I wish for straight hair, the days that I fight against it and end up pulling it into a pony-tail, the days that I envy my sister's stick straight hair (though, as she will tell it, she doesn't always love her hair either).
The last couple weeks my hair and I have spent the mornings bickering. I try my best to stay level-headed, yet it throws all sorts of pregnancy induced rantings at me. I will admit my faults here and there. I haven't had it cut since June, so it's very complainy and particular. But my lack of getting a hair cut isn't totally my fault. It requires planning in advance for a morning that I don't have Sydney. It requires money. It requires I pick up the phone and call the salon. These are major responsibilities, and I'm growing a baby for crying out loud, can't my hair just give me a break??!
So this morning, in a fit of pregnancy induced frustration, I took the scissors out of the junk drawer and cut my hair. Two inches (more or less). Snip.
What woman among us won't admit to once doing the same thing? Maybe it was back in junior high when we woke up one day thinking, "I would look good with bangs. Yeah. Lots of bangs." Nevertheless. We've been there. Right?
Well, I'm there.
And now I really do need to go get my hair cut.