I called my stylist yesterday because I was desperate. As in, ready to beg and plead for an immediate appointment. But to my great chagrin, I was told that my stylist no longer works there. Devastation. On a mass scale. Especially when this pregnant, hormonal woman was getting ready to go see the pediatric neurosurgeon. I was fragile, and this was very bad news.

So today I stopped in at a salon on the way to work, and thankfully a very nice man named AJ fit me in and gave me a very nice cut. Stylish, fun, easy - all the things I like in a haircut.

And I didn’t realize what a saint I’m married to until I got home (after driving with the windows open) and he greeted me with a cheerful, “You got your hair cut! I like it!” Nearly an hour later I happened to see - in my peripheral vision - a glimpse of a St. Bernard in a mirror. Who on earth is that? Oh wait! Oh. My. Word. That’s me! Apparently when driving home with the windows down and your hair full of professional strength styling products, one should look in a mirror before exiting the vehicle. Because now I look like I stuck my finger in a light socket. Exhibit A:

(note: picture doesn’t do justice to the ridiculous sight of my electrifying hair - it really is much worse than it seems)

My only question now is, would my saint-like hubby have said something about it had I not eventually looked in a mirror? Or would he have allowed me to show my face (crowned in all its chaotic mess of hair glory) in public? Perhaps that question was best answered by his prompting of “Honey, I was going to take a shower. Would you like to take one first?” That was, in fact, what drove me past the mirror and what resulted in me spitting my coffee across the bathroom vanity as I gasped “OH! myword…” when I saw the uncanny resemblance I bore to a St. Bernard… It takes a special man to look at a sight like that and offer a genuine comment. Had I been in his shoes, I probably would have been rolling on the floor laughing.