True love

This afternoon had all the hopes and expectations that a mother needed.

A break.
A respite.
An afternoon getting her haircut and colored.
By herself.

However, when your hairstylist who washes out your color (for the second-time around to correct the first blunder) says, "Well, I don't love it...it's not perfect...but it will do," you can just throw expectation and hope out the window.

(Note:  why is finding the right hairstylist in a new town just about as difficult as finding the pair for the leftover sock that is always left after all of the laundry is done.)

Then to top it off, she took my layers just a bit too short, while leaving the bottom long.
Cue the she-mullet.

Needless to say, as immature as it sounds,
as hard as I tried not to,
tears rolled.
Rolling like a river.

My poor, dear husband.
What he deals with...

Ding!
My inbox message alert goes off.
I open to read the text from my ICE:

"You are so beautiful to me even if you are a copper colored business on top, party in the back woman!"

I am blessed to have this guy.
I'm choosing to rock the mullet with my main squeeze on my arm,
knowing that my hair will grow out,
but thank God he won't.