How I cheat on my hair dresser.
Mike is the absolute best because when I'm having a day filled with hyperventilation he finds all the ways to tell me why I'm crazy and to calm the fuck down. It seems to involve telling me to do hair exercises. That is his way of saying WHEN I AM HIGH ALL OF YOUR ARGUMENTS ARE INVALID. Except he was only high that one time, so, there's that.
I was laying in bed realizing I have gone to the same hairdresser for almost two years straight. That wonderful person who the last time I tried to pay them shoved my money back at me AND made me a cup of coffee. Seriously. Who doesn't want to basically have a Sunday morning pajama party filled with good coffee and rad conversation? AND THEN YOUR HAIR GETS DONE. This was exactly what the Chez Fonda (hey I never called it that and I'm not French...or Spanish speaking...LOOK I SPEAK ENGLISH PRETTY OKAY SHUT UP) was like.
Then I made this pact in my head that I wouldn't cut my hair until Fonda didn't have cancer. Or at least was well enough to cut my hair.
Then I realized my hair looks like ass.
I'm pretty confident Fonda would want me to not have horrible hair. Especially not if I say something stupid like, "Oh my last hair cut? Fonda did it. SIX MONTHS AGO! And then because I'm stupid I've been trimming my own bangs and by trim I mean mangle so while we're talking about this just take in the amazing color job I did and let's forget that I ever mentioned such a skilled hair dresser was ever near me because now you think she's full of crap and can't actually do hair."
I shouldn't be this freaked out about hair. Except I'm really, really freaked out about hair. Also, I had to change my hair appointment because I didn't want to make Mike watch the kids for a hair appointment so I asked his Mom to watch the kids and she said yes but then said no, so I said I'd just cancel it but she was all no just reschedule but apparently the lady I was going to go to is like...amaze balls. Because Thursday was her first opening and I don't know what the hell my schedule is like the week after next so I had to call the salon and sound like a psychopath trying to explain WHY I didn't know who I wanted to schedule with and HOW TERRIFIED I WAS and etc.
What I'm really saying is I hate cancer because now I'm learning how I can't function like a normal human and I have no idea how regular people get hair cuts and make themselves look presentable. Also, I hate cancer because I fucking miss Fonda but I won't bring my kids anywhere NEAR HER because oh my God they're such germ bombs. So, boo cancer.
Boo hair appointments. Boo leaving my house and seeing people.
Which is another post entirely that goes something like: and then I never left my house and the world was a good place.
The End.
Except I'm lying and sad that I have to leave my house so often anymore.
But now Tuesday I'm going to cheat on my hair dresser and I have to pretend like I'm somewhat sane simultaneously. Van Michaels is smart though because they make you leave a credit card number so if you just run away in fear and miss your appointment they charge you a cancel fee. This is smart because otherwise I'D JUST NOT SHOW UP BECAUSE OH MY GOD THIS IS SO STUPID.
And yes these are first world problems.
I was laying in bed realizing I have gone to the same hairdresser for almost two years straight. That wonderful person who the last time I tried to pay them shoved my money back at me AND made me a cup of coffee. Seriously. Who doesn't want to basically have a Sunday morning pajama party filled with good coffee and rad conversation? AND THEN YOUR HAIR GETS DONE. This was exactly what the Chez Fonda (hey I never called it that and I'm not French...or Spanish speaking...LOOK I SPEAK ENGLISH PRETTY OKAY SHUT UP) was like.
Then I made this pact in my head that I wouldn't cut my hair until Fonda didn't have cancer. Or at least was well enough to cut my hair.
Then I realized my hair looks like ass.
I'm pretty confident Fonda would want me to not have horrible hair. Especially not if I say something stupid like, "Oh my last hair cut? Fonda did it. SIX MONTHS AGO! And then because I'm stupid I've been trimming my own bangs and by trim I mean mangle so while we're talking about this just take in the amazing color job I did and let's forget that I ever mentioned such a skilled hair dresser was ever near me because now you think she's full of crap and can't actually do hair."
I shouldn't be this freaked out about hair. Except I'm really, really freaked out about hair. Also, I had to change my hair appointment because I didn't want to make Mike watch the kids for a hair appointment so I asked his Mom to watch the kids and she said yes but then said no, so I said I'd just cancel it but she was all no just reschedule but apparently the lady I was going to go to is like...amaze balls. Because Thursday was her first opening and I don't know what the hell my schedule is like the week after next so I had to call the salon and sound like a psychopath trying to explain WHY I didn't know who I wanted to schedule with and HOW TERRIFIED I WAS and etc.
What I'm really saying is I hate cancer because now I'm learning how I can't function like a normal human and I have no idea how regular people get hair cuts and make themselves look presentable. Also, I hate cancer because I fucking miss Fonda but I won't bring my kids anywhere NEAR HER because oh my God they're such germ bombs. So, boo cancer.
Boo hair appointments. Boo leaving my house and seeing people.
Which is another post entirely that goes something like: and then I never left my house and the world was a good place.
The End.
Except I'm lying and sad that I have to leave my house so often anymore.
But now Tuesday I'm going to cheat on my hair dresser and I have to pretend like I'm somewhat sane simultaneously. Van Michaels is smart though because they make you leave a credit card number so if you just run away in fear and miss your appointment they charge you a cancel fee. This is smart because otherwise I'D JUST NOT SHOW UP BECAUSE OH MY GOD THIS IS SO STUPID.
And yes these are first world problems.