At least he won't need another haircut for awhile now

Sebastian decided on Friday night, while he was supposed to be sleeping but instead was coloring and cutting out many, many minecraft creepers,* that chopping up his hair was a delightful idea.

And by 'chopping' I mean CHOPPING:

I'm not really sure what possessed him, honestly.  I'd just trimmed his hair and he fought me on it because he wanted it to grow.  I'm normally all for long hair on boys, encourage it, in fact.  But his hair was growing out wonky and he looked like a deranged hobo and so I felt like the best course of action as I didn't have time to take him to a professional, and he won't sit still for it anyway, was to put the clippers on the longest setting and buzz through.

I didn't do a bad job, either.  I'd only missed a bit on his neck, but that was because by the time I got to that part he was completely incapable of standing still and I was in danger of slicing open the back of his neck.

But he hated the hair cut anyway, which whatever, child.

So the fact that he sat in his bed chopping his hair with his little child-sized scissors, as close as he could get it to his scalp, was surprising, to say the least.

He came downstairs, giggling, but not in humor, in nervousness.

"Look what I did to my hair!"  he said.

It was ... something.

And when he realized that it was completely irreversible and that we would have to buzz his entire head he proceeded to wail about how he didn't want to cut his hair.  For Thirty Minutes.

Of course, somehow, it became his parents' faults.  Because we were forcing him to do it.

I calmly explained to him that I was not the one who butchered his hair, that it was all his responsibility and that if he hadn't wanted a super-short hair cut then he shouldn't have taken scissors to his hair, and scattered the cuttings all over his dinosaur sheet.

(Seriously.  I still can't get all the hair off of that damn thing.  WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!)

So the next morning we held him down and buzzed off the rest of his chopped-off mane.

There was a small part of me that enjoyed it as his behavior has left something to be desired of late.  There's been biting and yelling and attitude and drawing on his walls even after he's been told not to.  He wrote "No Dads" in bright red crayon because he'd gotten in trouble for biting his sister, because she wouldn't stop trying to kick him out of his own hammock in the back yard.

So I was not displeased to hold him down and shave his head, is what I'm saying.

However, he's been a bit better lately, but I have to tell him that his first soccer practice has been cancelled tonight because of the weather, but his sister still gets to go to hers because her coach has access to an elementary school gym.

I expect more wailing.


*I have no idea what these are, but they are green and all over Sebastian's room.

So I cut my own bangs

I blame the two people who chimed in on facebook yesterday to tell me I should cut my own bangs.

I mean, I did ask for your opinion.  Though maybe you didn't make it all the way through yesterday's rambling post.  I'd say that today's will be better but my son woke up at 2 a.m. ready to start his day, then climbed into bed with me, and I believe I've said before that I don't sleep when my children share bed space with me.

So anyway, I decided to cut my own bangs.

Actually, I decided months ago that if I were to cut my bangs, I'd do it myself for two reasons.  The first is that I am unable to sit in a hairdresser's chair without immediately turning awkward and jittery and embarrassing myself, as I've mentioned before. 

The second reason is because I am economical* by nature and so the idea of paying someone $5 plus a tip so I can stumble my way through small talk while said someone I do not know breathes in my face while she trims my bangs was enough to send me to the store for shears.

I've already used them on Sebastian.  I gave him his last haircut, which actually doesn't look as bad as it could have.  There are only a few choppy parts.

So I thought, eh.  I can cut my own bangs.

Pinterest said so, and everything on Pinterest is true except for those pins that make you feel like a horrible mother compared to all the other mothers who have constant educational activities for their children and always speak lovingly and whatnot.  Those pins can suck it.

(Comparatively, I am sitting in my bedroom typing while my children have a screaming match upstairs, but as I've already cleaned up a bed full of poop today, I feel that grants me free pass to ignore them.)

So Pinterest had a tutorial and made everything seem easy and my friends told me to cut my bangs and I'm a sucker for peer pressure so there you go.

Here's the before:

 Dirty mirror and random child wanting my help putting toothpaste on her toothbrush?  Check.

I took these in my Jesus bathroom.  See?  He marked it.

Or the woman who lived here before us was super religious and had crosses everywhere and I'm a bit superstitious and refuse to scrub this discoloration off or paint over it.

For the last five years.

(Don't worry.  I'll get over it one day.)

 This is what Pinterest told me to do:

I couldn't take a picture of me actually cutting my hair because I am not so talented or coordinated.  So picture me with scissors.

And here is the after:   

Notice I took the time to brush and style my hair for you.  (HA!)  (Also don't look too close or you'll see all the little pieces of hair that fell in my eyes while I was cutting.)

They're only a little bit lopsided.  Totally worth it. But I'm not that picky.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go separate some Thomas children.
 
*cheap

Talking about my hair again. What of it?

I didn’t realize how much grey* hair I had until the latest batch of cheap, washout, at-home hair dye started to, well, wash out. 

Either I haven’t been paying attention or it’s been a stressful few months.  Or maybe my age is finally catching up with me.  I am an elderly 30 year old, you know.

Way back in my mid twenties I used to leave the grey hair be.  I thought it looked neat to just have one or two white hairs in my otherwise brownish locks.  Recently, however, I’ve been taking a different, more painful approach. 

I pull them out.

But at this point it’s getting a little ridiculous.  I find at least two new ones every day.  So I think it might be time to dye again.  I am scared to go permanent, though, because the color I use is dark.  Actually, it’s black, but mine doesn’t usually look black, more of a super-deep brown.  But don’t we all remember that trend in high school where people would dye their hair black, then it would grow out and they’d have about 4 inches of light brown roots and black ends?  I do not want that.  And I think I’ve established already that I am lazy when it comes to taking care of my hair, so I would be the one with the embarrassing roots and really, I’m not sure I need another issue to worry about.

But at some point most women dye their hair regularly, right?  The greys start taking over before we’re ready, and before we want to look like a grandmother.  How do you know when to take that step?

And before you suggest it, just know that I am way too cheap to have it professionally done.  I have a hard time paying the $20-30 just to get it cut, so there’s no way I’m going to pay to have it dyed. 

And I’ve got a box of my usual, washout hair dye, which actually will last for a couple of months, instead of the 28 washes it says on the box.  Or maybe I just don’t wash my hair often enough, which is probably more likely.  But I haven’t done it yet because I am waiting until I get a haircut first.

Do you remember how I feel about going to get my haircut?  It’s extremely awkward for me, as I am a socially awkward person in general.  But I want to have it cut before I dye it because inevitably I will mess up the hair dye, leaving whole patches undyed.  More than likely it will only be noticeable to someone who is close to my head, thus I don’t want to have the stylist roll her eyes at my botched dye job behind my back.

I realize that I am crazy.

It’s not something I can help.

Guess who didn't get much sleep last night?
Also, if you make the photo black & white you can't see all the grey hair.

*spelled with an ‘e’ because it’s prettier

This post has way too many pictures of my hair in it

Last Thursday I tweeted this:

Now, I knew I was nervous because I always am before a haircut.  But I couldn’t figure out why.  I’m not overly picky about my hair and even if you give me a haircut that looks like you put a bowl on my head and shaved everything below the rim, then yank my hair when I ask you politely to fix it, I’ll still tip you 50 percent, apparently.  Not that that ever happened to me 10 years ago in a J.C. Penney’s salon.

Ahem.

It wasn’t until I was sitting in the chair at the salon, trying to come up with anything, anything at all to speak with the stylist about, that I realized what was bothering me.

Small talk with strangers.

I HATE it.  And it’s not like you can just pretend like you have to go to the bathroom or hear someone else calling your name and leave.

No, you can’t leave.  Hell, you can’t even move your head to look away from the mirror.  So you are doomed to stare at yourself, which makes me feel like I’m overly conscious of the faces I make when speaking of random topics I pull out of my ear. 

And the poor stylist put up with me bringing up, out of shear, uncomfortable terror, every person I’ve ever known who’s lived or worked in Louisville, because that’s where she was from.  BECAUSE SHE MAY HAVE HEARD OF THEM.  (Spoiler alert: she hadn’t.)

And then there was daycare.  Why did I bring up daycare, you ask?  Because she has a 4 year old.  I know because I ASKED.  Also, I basically told her my life story, only leaving out the part about my episiotomy because I thought that might be vulgar. 

We also talked about mullets.  Because why not?

I’m pretty sure my incessant nervous ramblings only increased her need to get me the hell out of her chair as soon as possible.  But she was incredibly nice and did a really good job with what little guidance I gave her on what I wanted my hair to look like.

(Layers!  Lots of layers!  MORE LAYERS!  But no mullet, please.  Also, I probably won’t actually fix my hair, so make sure it’ll look good with the least amount of effort on my part.)

I love my new hair.  It’s so much lighter and looks like a style, not just dirty-hippie-chic.   I was bordering on Crystal Gayle in the length department and needed an update.

And so here it is before:

Cheerleader! (I made Chris take these photos. 
He barely even made fun of me.)

Note the tangled mess.

And after the cut and home-hair-dye, which wasn’t as calico as it usually is:

My photographer was unavailable. 
And this one was with makeup...

And without.  A study in yellow.

And just because I’m sharing, here’s a picture of me before mine and Chris’ date on Saturday.  Polka-dots make me happy:

And this one just because the kids are super-cute:

Self portrait of Sebastian as a little boy.  And Adele.

Sebastian did tell my hair looked pretty, but that may be because he wanted a piece of candy.

A ridiculous amount of words about my hair

I spent far too many years of my life trying to grow my hair out.  

I’d grow it throughout the winter because it was easy and created a built-in scarf/shawl.  Even now during the winter I won’t hardly wear my hair up because my neck gets cold, even with a real scarf.

But it never failed that when the weather started warming up, my hair wouldn’t be long enough to put up and have it look like anything but an insane person who had a personal interest in bobby pins.  It would drive me crazy.  And so I’d cut it.  Sometimes it would look really good and sometimes it’d look like maybe I shouldn’t have just walked into the salon in JC Penney’s at the end of the day and let the only person left, an ‘elderly’ gentleman, cut my hair and make it look like he put a bowl on top of my head and trimmed around it. 

Ahem.

But as soon as I cut it I’d swear to myself that this time, THIS TIME, I’d finally let it grow out.  Then the cycle would start again.  The only reason my hair is long now is because when I went to Austria (9 years ago, oh my hell!) I didn’t trust my language skills well enough to brave a trip to a salon to explain what I wanted done.  And so once I suffered through the awkward phase it was easy to let it grow out.  And I never cut it short since.

And I’ve been DYING to cut it short.  For years.  And somehow in my old age I’ve become chicken regarding my hair.  For the most part I’m fairly relaxed about it.  I’ll get someone to chop some bangs, or dice it up into layers, but it always stays long.  And for the most part, when I have gotten actual hairstyles cut (as opposed to just trims), I can’t keep up with them because I’m a wash and wear type of girl.  I don’t have the time to spend fixing my hair, and I’m not sure that I would if I did.  And it’s worked for me; my hair has cooperated most of the time.  

So now it looks pretty much like it always does – long and slightly layered – though now I’ve got some bangs growing out that are in a weird place.  They’re too long to not be in the way and too short to stay behind my ears.  I’ve perfected the side French braid for them.  I may look like an idiot but at least they’re not hanging in my face.

And now the heat and humidity is here.  Since I wear my hair up most of the time now anyway, it’s got me thinking more and more about just chopping it all off.  It’d be so much easier to take care of and would cut my shower time in half, thus giving me more sleep time.  

And yet I can’t take the leap.  I can’t commit to cutting my hair short.  I have become too scared to do so and I’m afraid of the commitment.  My husband likes it long, I think, though he says he doesn’t care.  And it’s a security blanket for my kids.  When they’re tired or upset, both of them reach for it.  It’s so sweet and I don’t want to take it away from them.

But I don’t want to end up on one of those makeover shows with my family showing pictures of me saying I’ve had the same hairstyle for so long that they’re embarrassed to go out in public on account of my lack of fashion.  And I don’t want it to become a crutch.  It’s like, the longer I wait the harder it’s all going to be.

And so I can’t decide.  But at this point I either need to just do it or stop talking about it.  Because I also don’t want to end up like those people who talk about doing stuff ALL THE TIME, like tatting up, but never have the follow through. 

If I was going to get it cut, though, I’d probably cut it super-short.  Maybe something like this:

Or maybe this:

 Oooh!  Maybe this:

What do you guys think?