It’s all about the hair, Baby!

Hair, hair, beautiful hair. Isn’t it the first thing we look at on a person? And the first thing we see when we look in the mirror?

“Wow… Look at her hair. Gorgeous! I wonder who does it.”

“Oh, GAWD. What a rat’s nest. I have GOT to do something with this mess.”

“Dammit. What were you doing chewing gum anyway, and how the heck did it end up in your hair?”

Today I spent two and a half long-overdo, highly-anticipated, much-deserved hours with Wayne, my stylist. {Did you catch that? I put stylist in italics. I really wanted to emphasize the word stylist.} He is a dream. I walked in there feeling dowdy and frumpy, like my roots were a mile long, my eyes sinking into my head (and down my throat!), and with more split ends than a scarecrow.

“And what are we doing today?” he asks, with his head cocked to one side, flipping the ends of my hair between his fingers in analysis.

“Anything. I just needed to get out of the house. We can sit here and chat for all I care. Oh, but while we do, could you chop in some fresh, flirty layers and reblondify my entire head? Thanks.”

So we chatted, and Wayne played with my hair. It was glorious, and rejuvenating, and time well-spent. When I left, I felt a little less dowdy and frumpy, was as rootless as could be, eyes shining bluer than ever, each strand of hair bouncing with excitement—and feeling a whole lot more sassy and spunky.

So yah, Wayne’s my stylist. He gives me style, and I likes it!

{I have really tried to take a decent ‘after’ pic, but until this Perioral Dermatitis clears up for good, I am way too insecure about my face. Soon… only one more week of Tetracycline. Fingers crossed.}

{Well, alright then… Here’s a picture.}