Need a Comb?

I kind of love that my hair stylist's name is Trudy. Her name makes me feel like Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias, gossiping with my hairdresser while my scalp sweats under the space machine hair dryer. Trudy asks me every time I find myself in her swivel chair what my heart desires. I routinely respond by saying, "Don't make me look like a mom, Trudy. I wanna be hip. Can you make me hip, Trudy?" I dare say that as much as I love gabbing with my darling stylist, she has given me the mom cut quite frequently. No offense to all you moms out there - you know what hair style I'm talking about. So when I paid her a visit last week, I asked her to make the color a little more funky. And by golly she succeeded. I was feeling a little more funktified for a few days, but yesterday I decided to take it to the next level. I got out the old flat iron and tried to do the whole messy/frizzy/semi-curly short hair do. I walked out of the house feeling a new breeze of hipness in my stiletto step and a smidgen like I had strategically placed my finger in the light socket...and then I arrived at work. My Argentinian friend, Jorge, who drives the shuttle from the parking lot to the building pulled up alongside my car to pick me up. As I hopped into the shuttle, Jorge quizzically looked at me and said, "Hmmm...you look different today." Then with an expression of a sudden stroke of an idea, Jorge reached into his pocket. With the most innocent and genuine expression I've ever seen, he pulled a black comb out of his jeans and said, "Do you need to use my comb?" He wasn't kidding.... No joke. I laughed non-stop until we arrived at the doors of my building and I'm still laughing about it now. Farewell, day of hipness. So long my days of sexy frizzy hair.

Welcome back, Mom hairdo :(