And now, some hand wringing!

I need a hair cut. I need lots of my hairs cut. Actually - I need all of them cut.

I've been feeling very hormonally hyperbol-ated lately and have resisted writing lengthy tomes about butterflies and the wickedness of late-night trash depositors and thumbnails and dreams and whatnot. I've resisted. Really.

Part of this recent hyperbol-ation though, is an inescapable sensation of being locked inside a very un-fit, very squashy, and very matronly version of me. Doesn't help that I'm still sore and bruised from the weekend of heavy lifting and tree-cutting... but the seed hath germinated from a place in my heart I like to call "dammit not that again".

Today, even though I'm wearing jeans to work, nothing fits. My squashy parts are a little too squashy and my gangly, knobbly limbs seem all the more disproportionate... I feel like a giant twinkie with pipe-cleaners jammed in.

And I feel like a giant twinkie with pipe-cleaners jammed in who desperately needs a haircut. Like, 2 inches at least. And I'm SOOO nervous about it!

Teeth cleanings, pedicures, and haircuts all go into the same bucket of loathe for me. Gotta go in there, make nice while some stranger gets all handsy and pretends to like you and then after it's all done and you smell like fluoride/lavender/soap and then you get to go out and give some third party a bunch of money over a countertop that's at least shoulder high. geh.

Anyway, what makes the hair thing so hard is that I've pretty much always had the same style. My hair is longish. It is untamed. It is riddled with flyaways and ever so gently streaked with silver. Even in high school it was unruly, wickedly thin, and did pretty much whatever it wanted.

Some times I go in for "long layers please, at the shoulder" and I end up looking like Swayze from Point Break. Other times I end up looking like I just got out of the "she tried to swallow too many pills so Olga cut off her hair" hospital. When it's a good stylist, I walk out looking like a million bucks - one part Jennifer Anniston, one part Helen Hunt. Then, a week later, I'm back to my disheveled and mousy self. Six months later, I decide to give it another try.

My six months is up. Time to go for it again. What's worse is that my very own most wonderful father in law is getting married this weekend... and I don't want sucktastic hair. It will be hot, humid, and hot and humid. Any hairs I pull back will wiggle their way free after an hour and erupt at my crown in a crescendo of absurdly curled flyaways amongst perfectly straight straws. Any Lovely waves I can squeeze into these tresses will be horribly maligned by sunset and will land me squarely in the "needs her meth" category of fashion sense.

So do I go for a little shorter? hope for the bounce and shoot for tousled bed-head? Do I leave it long and tie it back in a stern and sleek ponytail and hope they still make aquanet in "extra heavy duty"?

Also -do they make paper bags that match my shoes just in case I need to slip one over my head for the evening?

Likely, all of this problematic hair-stress would go away if I went someplace other than Uber-Cheap Hair Cutters.

Regardless: there it is. I'm going to try to screw up enough courage to go in there and get my hair hacked at again. Wish me luck. I'm a big girl for crissakes and it's JUST a hair cut.

Excuse me; I have to go practice my deep breathing exercises...