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.

bye hair
That’s a lotta hair that’s no longer on my head.

She dried it and styled it and it feels great, much healthier.

new cut
I’m pointing to my former length, not my boob.

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.