"Who are you, and what have you done with Heidi?"

Today's title is brought to you by my bestest, Biddie, who was concerned when I wrote on Friday that I was voluntarily taking my daughter to the mall. Well, siddown, here's a shock: I went back the next day.

It was time for my SEMI-ANNUAL HAIRCUT.
I found a nice young fella named Ehsan who has pretty black fringed dark eyes. He was doing four women at once. Lucky guy, eh? Yep, I was just another girl under a hair dryer. But he did a great job. I caved and let him blow dry it straight because of those pretty eyes of his.

It was insane in there. Remind me why I never go to the mall on a Saturday. It was so loud and so hot in the salon. I can't say I enjoyed my four friggin hours in there. I didn't. I mean, I even had a girl polish my nails -for free- while the dye soaked into my hair. It was just tooooo loud and there were toooo many people there.

This is the back.
But when I got home, Jethro had horsed the shed onto its foundation and gotten started on the new fence. Stupid cheap crappy tin shed.

He also put my new tailllights on my truck. Isn't that sexy?
Today (Monday) I went back for a touch up, since the dark brown didn't quite cover the bleached part. My boy Ehsan was much more relaxed today. So was I. He seemed to figure out today that I am not a fashionable hip club hoppin young suburbanite. I'm somebody's mother. I wear jeans and T shirts. I'm very comfortable in rubber boots, swinging a pitchfork. I'm a basically unpretentious unfussy kind of girl...I just want fake hair, okay? Give me a colour found in nature but only on petunias. I asked him to not straighten it today. I have my familiar and comforting waves and curls and chaos around my head.

Hairstylists usually spend several minutes telling me how great my hair is. How thick and luxuriant and strong and wavy and wonderful my head of hair is...and then a couple hours later, they're blowing it straight and flat-ironing it. Well I'm not in high school anymore kids, and I won't be talked into anything. My hair is not straight. To iron it into submission is to suggest that I'm in need of some straightening out too.

I'm crooked, unruly, and almost impossible to tame. And I'm starting to feel pretty good about it.