November fifth: Redken 7n

So there I was, early this morning, sitting in a salon chair for the first time since I was eighteen years old. That's right, I actually paid a lovely lady to do fix my hair after an unfortunate DIY event earlier this summer. And that lovely lady? Her name is actually Vianca and she had cute boots and the prettiest black hair I've ever seen. While I read magazines and painted my nails, she talked about Kim Kardashian and she fixed me right up! She also listened to my crazy story of how, on my due date with my youngest, I got an itch to dye my own hair....

Well, I'll just finish that story right now. My crazy, prenatal hair turned red on the top and black as coal on the ends (despite the fact that I very carefully selected the dark blonde box). You may think I'm exaggerating, but even my mom panicked. And when Jared walked through the door for lunch that afternoon, he literally took a step back after seeing me, and let slip the word 'Woah!' out from his mouth.

I should have slapped him. It really was a situation that called for hysterics. But truth be told, I had been pregnant forty weeks to the very day and I had bigger, bulging things to worry about. I really didn't care.

That is, I really didn't care until I went into labor two hours later. I can honestly say, fast forward another few hours, as I was laying on the hospital bed, screaming my head off, I was also thinking to myself: I need to tell this handsome doctor that I don't normally look like this....and....Oh my gosh! Not good! All these pictures we'll be taking here soon with new baby are going to be so awful! (I know, so vain!)

So this morning, I was girly. I was chatty and social. And you know what? It was nice. I'm usually not the sugar pie butterfly sort, but today it felt good.

My mother will be proud.