Public Service Announcement: Miscommunications with one's stylist can end in catastrophe. Just sayin'.
My hair is wavy. Not curly, not straight-- WAVY. Which means one must use extreme caution when cutting and/or styling it, as there is great potential of looking like Nick Nolte's mugshot.
There was grave miscommunication with my last haircut. Having lived with the crazy outcome for a month, I finally became fed up enough to go rectify the situation. So now, it's even *shorter* but at least I no longer look like I should be chanting SKATE OR DIE! SKATE OR DIE!
So, anyway, I officially have "Mom hair" now. But, whatever. It still really is an improvement, sad to say.
Due to the coiff carnage, I had to change my shirt immediately upon arriving home. I hate, hate, HATE the feel of those little floaty post-cut hair bits sticking to my neck. Muy itcharino.
Monkey and her dad were just sitting down to dinner (her second dinner, since she eats at GOG's house too) when I came into the kitchen sporting a "chill-out" shirt.
This usually means a concert t-shirt, because between Daddy and Mommy there are at least 1,597 concert t-shirts at our house. (All but 5 of those are black, BTW. )
Monkey greets me with, "Oooh! I WIKE your shirt, Mommy. What is that?" <points to the symbol on the front>
I cheerily replied, "Thanks, honey. That picture is a symbol for a band called Bon Jovi."
She grins and dives into her food.
Sitting down, I try to seize the opportunity to expand the conversation by asking: "Can you say BON JOVI, Monk?"
"No. I don't like to say bad words."
Daddy choked on his dinner. Jerk.
Toddler FTW. :(