I sojourned in the land of Mullet

but have returned to the sweet promised land of Jaw-Length Bob with Bangs.

My last haircut was freaking awesome. Probably my favorite ever. It was short and fun and... really high-maintenance. Like, I had to actually do stuff to it so I'd look female (have you seen my jaw? it is, shall we say, very masculine). Usually "stuff" meant just flat-ironing the crazy Zac Efron swoopy bang thing down and putting some goop in it once it was dry, but for me tha's a lot. Like a prom 'do. Oh, and my hair now grows at the speed of light. It's always grown fast, but pregnancy really kicks it into high gear. Within a week of getting this haircut, it was already looking like something with a nasty flu had died on my head.

So, of course, I waited two months to get it cut again. All because I don't like talking on the phone. In the meantime, the hairs on the back of my head just sprouted like crazy, leaving me somewhere between this:



and this:



Great for laughs, not so great for feeling superfabulous. Because when your belly resembles a basketball, and your waddle resembles that of a mare in labor, the attractiveness of your head and its various *accoutrements is pretty much all you've got. In fact, you don't even have shoes because the single most important thing to a very pregnant lady is shoes that slip on and off easily, preferably without the need to bend over at all. And this is winter in Wisconsin, so that leaves out cute slip-on shoes, and all we're left with are nursing clogs with very functional soles.

*Firefox Fail #3574: "accoutrement" is in their dictionary, but its plural is not. Lame.

So. Haircut. The mullet was funny for a while, but my vanity couldn't take it. And I went back to Bob. Bob is cute, and with him I feel feminine, even when I let my hair just air dry. Bob grows out nicely, so that if my terror of the telephone keeps me from making an appointment for two months, no worries (so long as we don't go past shoulder length). Long hair, no matter how it's layered, makes me look like a boy in a wig. A stringy wig that got rolled in grease. And short hair, as I've learned, makes me crazy, no matter how good it looks for a week.

But I am sick of Bob. I have had Bob since about sophomore year of high school. Bob is comfortable and suitable and right, but so are old socks. I want to trade him in for a newer model, but all the newer models turn out to be Mullet in the end. And Mullet don't treat me right.