I am so sick of my hair. Of trying to find the right product to make it less frizzy, less huge, less lioness mane like. Of fucking it up with hair dye. Of putting it in curlers just to have it turn out poofier than ever.

By the way, when I was visiting Georgia last year my hair was the bomb. Apparently. I kept getting oohs and aahs from all of these southern women with giant hairsprayed bubbles on their heads. Thanks ladies, but Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader material I am not.

When I was a teen, I solved this problem by getting a pixie cut. A very short, very easy to care for pixie cut that I adored. Easy enough then, right? I should just cut it all off again. I’m trying to bring what I feel on the inside to the outside… no stretchy pants, doing my hair and makeup everyday, trying to sort out my personal style and feel good about the way I look. Its important to me. (I’m also trying to work on the huge amount of guilt I feel for caring what I look like at all. Zany.)

Except I was easily a good 40 lbs lighter and a helluva lot younger then. (I did try the short haired look when I was pregnant with Ivy… so not a great idea. Wow.) And, even though when he met me my hair was uber-short, my husband has a thing for long hair. And continuously tells me so. I know, its my hair, my life, I should do what I want. But, I love him, and I still want him to lust after me like a dog eyeing a porterhouse. Plus, he respects me enough to tell me the truth when something doesn’t work for me, so it makes me think twice.

But right now. With this curly mop on my head. In hideous pigtails. I WANT IT ALL GONE. NOW.