I got my hair cut. I still go to a place in my old neighborhood because I love my stylist. She was totally booked this week but rearranged some things to squeeze me in yesterday, because she knows that I haven’t felt that great the last few months (I might have fainted in her chair a few months ago…good times.).
I showed her how much I wanted cut off, and then she got to it.
She dried it and styled it and it feels great, much healthier.
In the car on the way home, I hit traffic (always traffic, damn you LA) and my mind wandered. I’m 28 weeks pregnant, just a few days away from Madeline’s gestational age when she was born. I’m stressed out. I started to go down thought paths that weren’t great. So in an attempt to yank my brain out of the abyss, I decided I hated my hair cut.
I came home and cried about it.
Then Annie came over to me and said, “Mama, where’d your hair go?”
I cried about it while I ate a sugar-free, low-carb, high-protein dinner.
I cried about it while that dinner came back up a few minutes later.
When I put Annie to bed, she patted my hand and said, “It’s okay, mama.”
I sat on the couch and felt stupid for crying about my hair. I don’t hate it.
But yesterday, it was easier to say I did.