I have always been pretty flexible about my hair. I have friends and family members who have a psychiatrist on call to talk them off the ledge after every haircut, but I'm more of the "Eh, it'll grow" school of thought. I spent a good portion of the 90's going around half-scalped in an effort to look like Winona Ryder or Meg Ryan, but, you know, I was happy. I looked ridiculous, but I didn't even know. So I like to change it up, experiment with color and cuts and live a little.
When Toby was about 2, he observed of the MOG, "Daddy don't have any hairs. He only haves a HEAD and TEETH." And this was, and is, pretty accurate. He had hair until he was about 22, and then it started escaping because of all the anointing and brains and stuff, and after a long battle with denial, he shaved the remaining hairs off. Since then, he has become fairly proprietary about other people's hair, if you catch my drift. "I think I need bangs," I said, a few days ago, envisioning an elegant swoopy bang. Immediately, he goes here in his mind:
And he has this whole thing, like, "You look terrible with bangs! They're always all like this," he says, with splayed terror fingers across his forehead. "And you looked like a zombie/fire victim/fallen angel* for ALL of 1997!" he worries. And I mean, I had bad haircuts on occasion, sure. But I seem to remember a tremendous amount of positive feedback in 1997, specifically in regards to my hotness. Specifically from him. A tremendous amount. Sometimes in front of everyone. My hotness was a continual topic, if I recall correctly.
But he never remembers. "I love your hair now, don't change it." he always says, even though when I suggested this new color, he was all like, "Well, I like it now. I guess you can do whatever you want, I (siiiigh) guess." And then I go dye it, or I cut my own bangs, or whatever, and he's always against it. Always. Then after like 2 days, he figures out that I was right, and can I just keep this hair, please, for 6 months or something, he requests, because, come on. Hot.
So now, I'm tired of my current "Mommy Hair" and I threw out the idea, maybe a little color boost, some bangs... maybe a LITTLE trim. He sees this:
What I'm going to have to do is go get my hair cut, without permission, exactly like some kind of rebellious sister-wife on her way out. Then he'll hold his tongue but react with his eyes, looking all alarmed and then crushed, and then he'll like it. That's the plan.