F-Bomb Mom gets a Haircut

I went to get my hair cut yesterday.

The first time in 9 months. 

I could see my feet.  I didn't have a toddler using my body as a slide.  I had on a clean shirt.  I didn't even have any diapers in my purse. 

I was feeling good.

I sank back in the chair in front of a lady I have come to trust. 

I brought along my trusty picture.  One I'm sure this lady has seen 1000 times in the past two weeks alone:

Every other damn person puts it on Pinterest.

This was a no fail situation.  Basically a trim with a little tweaking to make it interesting.

I'm confident a beauty school flunky could have knocked this one out of the park. 

I'm confident I could have taken Henry's sissors to my head and done a fairly decent job.

(This coming from a person who wore puffy headbands until 8th grade because she lacked the skill to pull her hair into a pony tail, is saying something.)

Maybe it was my fault, maybe I just missed all the signs:

Stylist:  "Gee, you're my last appointment.  I'm so glad I can finally relax.  I've been slammed all day long."

Well, Mrs. Hair Lady I'm glad you can relax too. 

I'm all for relaxation, however:

I didn't want you to FUCKING FALL ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL.

**I know I'm kind of an F-Bomb mom.  I know this offends some of you. 

I promise I don't do it in front of my children.

I know swearing is just the tool of a lazy mind, blah, blah, blah.

My mind is very lazy; so I will continue to use it to convey the depth of the situation.

(I promise I try to substitute "freaking," "fudging," "darn."  If it works, I do it.  It didn't work this time...)

I know all of you have been in this place at one time or another: 

You look up in the mirror from your issue of Vogue and think to yourself,

"Ohhh, Hmmm....this is not where I saw this going at alllllll."

If you have known your stylist for some time, you can also see the thoughts rolling around in her head:

"Welp, guess I really took a wrong turn on this one, ohh well, can't win em all..."

Now, what happens?

I politely inquire,

(I promise in my most non-confrontational voice; I actually am a nice person in real life.)

"Does this look like it's...laying right...to you?"

(The politest way possible to say, "What in the Hell are you doing to my head?")

Stylist:  "Well, as I suspected, it's not going to hit your shoulders quite right. The angle of the blightly, bleuigh, layers, angled, gligity...shears....angle of the moon, gravitational pull....

We're just going to have to take off a few more inches to make it lay right."

Me:  Whhhaaaaaaaa, waaait, huh, what happened.  Did I fall asleep?  What's happening here? Who are you?  Do you have a license? Can't we just glue some back on?

Bitch, I just grew my hair out for the past 9 months to get it out of the awkward length you just cut it back into.

She totally missed the gravity of the situation unfolding in my head.

Which probably to the average person, wouldn't have been a situation.

To me, the newly menstrual, frighteningly hormonal, mother of two children under two: 

It's a BIG FUCKING DEAL.

(Sorry, "fudging" didn't work that time either...)

So there lies another two inches of my hair on the floor, and I'm left thinking,

"What just happened here? I know I'm confused a lot, but seriously...what just happened here?"

Stylist:  "Well you know it works on Gwyneth Paltrow because she has that long giraffe neck."

Me:  "I didn't show you a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow."

Stylist: [Blank stare.]

Am I high?