it's not bed head.

i wear my hair short because as much as i'd love a think head of wavy, below-my-shoulders gorgeousness, if i've only got 3 wishes the boobs [bigger] and thighs [smaller] get first dibs. And i might need that third wish for an emergency.

short hair needs to be cut more often, and my schedule in the summer isn't conducive to having a life much less personal grooming, so I set up a summer's worth of appointments in May.

Brilliant! I know, right?

They're all at 8 am. Less brilliant. Way less than brilliant. Too darn early.

But by now my hairdresser Michael and I are tight. Goooood buddies. He reads my mind and cuts my hair exactly the way I want it, regardless. A magician, that man is! And he talks fashion and music and houses and loves beefy guys. He's me in a boy's body. So when I arrive 10 minutes late for my appointment in sweats and a ball cap, Michael pretends to not be surprised that I've totally rolled right out of bed for my haircut.

I take my hat off and put it in my lap. And Michael takes it from me and tosses it on the floor. "Honey, you're not gonna need that when you leave me."

And he's always right. Thanks, Michael!

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