One of the graduate assistants at my work is a budding photographer and asked me weeks ago if she could photograph my burgeoning gut. I told her that would be great, knowing there was zero chance of my documenting my pregnancy myself and figuring that when I'm nine months pregnant, I will remember being five months pregnant with fondness. "You thought you knew what sciatica felt like then!" I'll think to myself. "You fool!"
Being myself, I figured the most sensible time to arrange a photo shoot would be the day after the semester was over, which is also the day Ryan and I are supposed to be getting ready to leave town for several weeks. Do other people's brains work better than this?
So, this week I logged all my hours, finished a Medicaid application, saw eleven clients, facilitated three groups, went to class, wrote a client conceptualization, entered the last two months worth of client notes including three infamously time-consuming intakes, gathered the documents required to reinstate my driver's license, gained two pounds, and slept through the night once. When I crashed through the door last night at 7:30 and announced I would be showering, Ryan looked relieved.
Since I hadn't showered since Monday. Seriously, who has the time?
What he didn't know was that the reason I was showering is that I am to be photographed in public today and my haircut is so bad that last week when I showed my own sister and cherished oldest friend what it looked like pre-curling iron, they both looked genuinely concerned. Like how you would look if your sister or cherished oldest friend came before you after having had a run-in with a four year old and a pair of scissors. Because that's what my uncurled hair looks like. The curled version doesn't look good, mind you, but it does somewhat diminish the weed-whacker effect.
At least that's what I tell myself.
Where was I? I'm really tired, people.
Ah, yes, showering. So I emerged from the shower ready for Ryan to take a swing at cutting my hair. I had not received his consent to proceed with this plan, as I imagined it would be difficult to obtain. I strategized that dripping-wet, urgency-infused coercion would more likely achieve compliance. You see, we had tried this before, and it didn't go great, but, I figured, when your hair looks as bad as mine currently does, probably having less hair will be an improvement. Also, I have unwarranted faith in the ability of a curling iron to mask pretty much the entire spectrum of bad haircuts. I was uninvested. When I announced the plan, he looked panicked.
He should have known better than to attempt to resist. I am incorrigible.
After a few different methods of haranguing, he took our dull scissors and gave it his best shot. After one trip around my head he decided he had had enough, and left me there, sopping wet lunatic that I am, to finish the job.
I didn't mind. He had already cut the back.
My hair doesn't look worse, though I can't say it looks better. Again, sans curling, the effect is comical at best. But, there is less hair, and that was the only goal, which makes the event a success!
Good thing I will have my driver's license picture taken in two hours and then spend a couple hours this afternoon being photographed in public. It's nice to know you can count on yourself to be someone with consistently good judgment and plenty of dignity.