I got my hair cut. The act seems so stupidly easy, doesn't it? But no, add a few children to your life and suddenly haircuts occur as frequently as say, the moon eclipses the sun.
Because the cuts are so infrequent and because I look so disheveled in between said cuts, I have high expectations of the trip itself, and of course the damn cut. I do want to see a hairdresser who is going to massage my head during the shampoo. I don't want to see a hairdresser who is going to talk my face off. I do want to read trash magazines. I don't want to get sheared in the face because the hairdresser is yapping away to her co-worker.
And if I fall asleep at any time, I don't want to be woken up.
Even though I know what I'm looking for, it's been hard to find a hairdresser I like in Mulletville Lite or its environs. This is a rural community. Most people go to the farm for their eggs and their trim.... and their extra-marital affair. It's true: farmers are busy in this town.
Since I couldn't find a hairdresser I liked here, I drove an hour to Mystic, which is home to an aging population of rich white people. Hey, a bouffant is preferable to a mullet! Besides, it's kind of the closest thing southeastern Connecticut has to an urban hotspot.
All I wanted was a trim. My locks were past my shoulders.
"Please don't cut them off entirely," I begged the hairdresser. "My anniversary is this weekend. My husband likes my long hair."
She promised she wouldn't hack it all off. The bitch promised! But of course I left looking like the Dutch Boy. Once again. Even worse, she flat-ironed the shit out of it. It was thin. It was non-existent. I looked like the Dutch Boy in his sixties! I was a prepubescent, geriatric conundrum.
When she saw my crestfallen face, she tried to cheer me up with free product. Usually that works. This time, however, I felt a little dirty as she fingered the container and extolled the product's virtues.
"I love this stuff!" she gushed. "You spray it on and scrunch or poof or whatever look you're going for..."
The whole time she spoke, all I could think was Ew, she is giving me a penis bottle. Every time I go into the bathroom it's going to gawk at me. I'm going to have nightmares about it trying to poke me. I don't want a penis bottle. What if I drop it and accidentally slip and fall on it? Will I get pregnant?
"This stuff is great! Blabbity blah blah fabulous! It's on the house! You'll love it!"
So here I am, two days away from my wedding anniversary. We're going away for the weekend. It's supposed to be romantic. Full of flair. And yet, I look like the Dutch Boy and I'm traumatized by the sight of penises.
Thank God traditional materials for your sixth anniversary are candy and iron. Sugar cubes and an iron skillet will save us. They have to.