My Hair Is Emo & My Husband Is Blind

So, I got my hair done Saturday. It was time. Beyond time. I was once again beginning to look like the Yeti. That's how I know it was time for a trim. I was wearing a perpetual haystack on top of my head. And plus, Christmas is coming (in case you didn't know). I know it's time for a haircut when my nerves are all a-jangled because my hair keeps going in my eyes, and is very unruly, and its fingers are digging into my face, my scalp, begging me to take it out of its misery. Cut me! Cut me! it pleads. My hair is emo.

I got my hair highlighted with foils, and cut and blowdried. For those of you (read: mostly men) who don't know what foils entail, read on. Foils is basically just that: foil. Yes, Alcan foil cut into wide strips and then wrapped around chunks of your hair with some dye brushed on. I end up looking like a candidate for a 1960s exhibition freak show, or an airplane with a very wide wingspan. Foils is, in my opinion, a much better option than, say, the highlighting cap, which could also be called The Cap From Hell, or even The Suicide Cap. I used to get my hair highlighted with a cap because it was cheaper, and because they hadn't yet come out with the foil method. However, I would cringe for days before my hair appointment, preparing myself for the pain, the torture, the suffering. I felt like Christ on the cross when I went to the hairstylist. This is why: the cap is made of rubber, and it has these tiny holes poked throughout it. This cap gets pulled tightly onto your head (did I mention tightly?), much like a very tight pair of pantyhose that don't quite fit. Except they're on your head. This rubber cap with tiny holes basically is there covering your scalp, and then the torturer/hairdresser comes at you with something that looks like a crochet hook, but feels like an axe, and he starts picking through these little holes in the rubber cap and pulling strands of your plastered-down hair out through the tiny, miniscule holes. Now, not only does that hurt just reading that last sentence, but it really hurts when it's being done. Imagine someone taking small strands of your hair, and continually pulling them really really hard, without mercy, for about two hours straight. Let me just say that my scalp has bled, and I cried a lot. And that is why I now get foils.

My hairdresser, Lynne, does a great job, for a good price. I like her, and it's always fun to sit there and listen to the stylist next to her, Luigi, go on and on with his customers in his heavy Italian accent. I feel like I'm in a scene from The Godfather, and I keep checking the mirror to make sure there isn't anyone behind me with a rope, or a horse.

There is this test I do with Mr. Handsome whenever I get my hair done. I don't mention my plans to him, and then when he sees me, I wait silently and patiently to see if he notices any difference. Usually, he doesn't. Then I get angry with him and treat him badly for days. Just kidding. Mostly.

And sometimes, he hates it. Or wishes I hadn't gotten it cut and styled, because he likes the way I do it, which is really no way at all. I usually wake up in the morning too late to do anything with myself but run a brush quickly through it to smooth out the various lumps and moguls any skier would love to go down. Sometimes I even wash my face and brush my teeth. Usually not until after I've had at least one cup of coffee, preferably two, and have had a chance to pick my nose and watch Ellen DeGeneres. I love her, by the way. I wish I could be her BFF, because I know we would be. I'd be a lot better than Paris Hilton, that's for damn sure.

Anyway, I digress yet again.

So, I got my hair done on Saturday, and this time, Mr. Handsome knew I was getting my hair done because I told him so. We've been extremely busy around here the past couple of months, mostly because of Mr. Handsome. I haven't been busy at all on my own, unless you call sitting on the couch, drinking coffee, eating bonbons, picking my nose and watching Ellen busy. Well, it sounds busy, doesn't it? If that ain't multi-tasking, I don't know what is.

Mr. Handsome has been very very busy with work, and he hasn't been home much, which is unusual for the little feller. He's a busy little bee, darting in and out of the house to eat, then back to work. Don't ask me what he's doing. You'd fall asleep if I began trying to explain it, which I can't, so I won't. It's much too complicated for this little brain of mine. And besides, Ellen is coming on soon.

Let's just say that because Mr. Handsome hasn't been home much, it's all been on me -- can you believe it?! -- to get things done, and that includes Christmas shopping, doctor appointments, stocking stuff, cleaning the house (oh god), decorating (double oh god), and making sure Nanaimo is drinking. We know she's eating, because she's gaining 30 grams a day in weight. The pig.

One of my friends said to me the other day, "Maybe your husband is having an affair?", to which I scoffed, sprayed coffee out my nose, and then said, "Yeah, whatever," because I know that scenario is just too ridiculous, and plus, I haven't given him permission.

So, like I said, I got my hair done, and then I came home, and came into The House of Shambles, whereby my daughter lay on the couch in tears because she was sick and on the verge of throwing up, and she says she has a vomit phobia. Just a minute, I have to see if there is actually a scientific name for that...yup, there is. It's emetophobia. Can you believe it?! So, she's writhing on our couch, moaning, calling out my name in a trembling, weak voice, her hand outstretched, grasping blindly for mine. Dennis is doing pseudo-Karate moves in the living room at the Christmas tree and the dog, both of whom are ignoring him.

So, I come in and get very busy, sitting on the couch holding my daughter's hand and shouting at my son to stop screaming so loudly in a foreign language. That's all I did until Mr. Handsome finally came home from the office. Oh yeah, I forgot. I also got some groceries, and Mr. Handsome asked me to please pick up a take-out chicken dinner because he would be getting home late and it was his turn to make dinner (yes, he makes dinner occasionally).

So, we have our dinner, except for Milly, who is still splayed on the couch, and then, as Mr. Handsome and I pass each other in the hallway and he gropes my left butt cheek, he looks at me and stops. And he says, "Wow, you've got major flat head today." And he proceeds to take his hands and muss up my hair in a rather feeble attempt to add body to my just-styled hair. You see, Lynne had added some product before blowdrying it with a roller brush, hence straightening my usually less-than-straight hair and creating a flattening, yet flattering, effect. I liked it. I don't normally wear it this way, but I liked it. Not that it would ever look that way again, not until I visited Lynne again.

So, Mr. Handsome musses up my hair and then proclaims, "There, that's better."

And I tell him, "I just got my hair done today."

To which he sheepishly replies, "Oh..." And after another length pause, he says, "It looks good!"

We are still on speaking terms. Just.