I’m getting my hair done today.  Excuse me if I don’t sound very thrilled.  That would be because I HATE getting my hair done.  Sure, I like it after the fact -- well a few days after the fact, once it’s settled in -- but I hate the actual process and sitting in that god damn chair for soooooooo bloody long.  It seems like such a waste of time to me.  There’s so many better things I could be doing.  Like cleaning out my belly button or watching paint dry.  But it’s a necessary evil.  The price to pay for being vain about your hair.

Fortunately I actually have good hair.  I’m not just bragging -- I’ve had many stylist say so.  It’s straight and very, very thick.  And it pretty much does whatever I want it to -- a quality that I would prefer to have in my husband and children, but it is a good quality to have in hair nonetheless.

And I do love my hair dresser.  And sometimes his wife also does me (in a completely non-sexual way -- don’t get the wrong idea here people).  I’ve stalked them to 3 different salons over the years.  They both do high-lights and low-lights like nobody’s business.  And they can cut with the best of them.  But neither one of them can style their way out of a wet paper bag.  Come to think of it, I have NEVER had anyone who can style my hair to my liking (yes -- I acknowledge that I could be the problem).  I always bring a ball hat with me to throw on the minute I leave the salon, then run home and re-style.  In fact I’m now at the stage where I’ll just say “I’m only going home to watch TV on the couch and go to bed.  You don’t have to bother styling me.  Just give it a quick blow-dry to get some of the wet out”.  Because honestly, what’s the point of sitting in that god damn chair a minute more than I have to for something that I won’t even like?  It’s torture.  Particularly when it’s high-light/low-light time, or the “long one” as I describe it to the boys.  The “short one” is the appointment where I just get a little trim up.  A re-shaping if you will.

And to Willie’s credit he has kindly trained the boys to systematically repeat “oh -- you’re hair looks nice Mommy!” the minute I come through the door.  Whether they’ve even looked at my hair or not.  And I know that they’re on autopilot when they say this because I, too, have looked at myself in the mirror.  For the past 2 hours that I’ve spent in that God forsaken chair as a matter of fact.  And I either a) have a baseball hat on so how could they possibly see my hair in the first place or b) it’s been styled to the hilt and froo-frooed up with so much product that my hair resembles something that should be walking down the red carpet on Oscar night -- which is in stark contrast to the jeans, t-shirt and runners I’m wearing.  And so I look completely ridiculous.  But they all get lots of bonus points for saying it looks nice anyway.

So tonight I will go for the “long one” and they will work their magic.  I will get a few high-lights and a few low-lights.  Then they will trim me into shape and send me on my way.  And I will have much less money in my account.  But tomorrow morning, after I shower and style it myself, it will look fabulous.  At least for 6 -- 8 weeks.

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Speaking of hair . . . A 51-year-old chunk of hair taken from Elvis’ haircut when he entered the Army is going up for auction this week, among some of his other items.  And I LOVE LOVE LOVE me some Elvis!  It’s tempting . . . VERY tempting.  Do you think they could extract some of his DNA, mix it up in a petri dish and impregnate me?!?!?  How cool would that be?  Elvis’ Baby Momma.  That just might be worth bidding on . . .