I had a hair appointment last weekend. I rescheduled it due to snow. Or I thought I did. I asked to move it to this morning. I rolled out of bed, took one look at my hair, screamed a little, and put it in a ponytail. This is my normal Monday-Friday routine. You would think tossing, turning, and doing that much damage to my hair overnight would leave some sign, a shredded pillow or an angry dog. My hair, she runs amok while I sleep. This might be the curse of thick hair with body but no curl. I looked like Steven Tyler without the stripes this morning. And no soul patch. Or glasses. Or lips. Or leery looks. Mainly, just the hair. Suspecting all had not gone as planned, I called to confirm before I chance the still-melting hill (which had police cars at the top and bottom when I got home last night. I've never seen that before. Slowing people down?). No appointment. So now my hair is frightful and I have no appointment.
Oh, hair. I don't want to live without it but I would like for it to straighten up and act right. This makes me so nostalgic for the golden days of Amberlee, but I feel like I'd have to get a better haircut before I could go back to her for a better haircut. Does that make sense?