Blog a la Cart

So I mentioned that my hair has slowly (okay, RAPIDLY) been falling out. This process began about two weeks ago, and while I’ve been in denial, this week has forced me to face the hard truth- I am a postpartum woman, going bald. GOD THESE HORMONES ARE AWESOME! And so I present…

You know it’s time to shave your head when:

1. You realize that the tumble weeds of hair strewn about the house are YOURS not the dog’s; the dog that sheds as though it were summer 365 days a year.

2. You have to pull a three foot strand of hair out of your infant’s mouth as though you were a magician- WHOA WHOA WHOA! Look what she’s got stored in her folks!– because it is so long that she face plants into it whenever she’s on your shoulder, and then tugs it out with her ninja death grip, and promptly shoves it into her mouth as though it were a nipple or something equally delectable. But it’s hair. So it’s gross. And stringy. And causes much gagging. Baby gagging. The most pathetic kind. Having a strand of hair, or spaghetti, or melted cheese stuck down the food pipe is the WORST! Ewww. I’m getting the chills just thinking about it. My poor child has had to contend with that awful sensation at such an early age. Fucking hair. Corrupting my child.    For more updates drssa visit us .

3. After combing your hair, your brush looks like it’s been in a fight with a hair ball. Or like a bird might want to make a lovely nest among its bristles. In fact, I could house an entire nation of birds thanks to this shedding and the piles of hair now in the trash. I’ll donate it to the bird homeless. Because I’m just THAT kind of humanitarian, er aviatarian? Question mark? Check these out cmsmd .

4. One of your favorite bloggers makes the decision to chop her hair 5-months post-childbirth and in addition to learning from her near-infant-toe-lopping-mishap that hair is dangerous for babies, comparable to light sockets, scissors and fluffy crib bedding ALL IN ONE!, your first thought is, That woman is a fucking genius. Seriously, the Einstein of our time! BRILLIANT! Why didn’t I think of that!?

5. Your child sends chunky, projectile spit up directly into your pony tail, COATING your coiffe in a consistency comparable to bird shit. And when your husband walks into the room because he hears you wailing, OH JESUS! I’M GOING TO PUKE ON THE BABY! GET HER OFF ME! and finds you drowning in her vomit, he says, Yeah, it’s time.

And so, today, I marched down the street and walked into a salon and stated, CHOP IT! with much gusto. It was a little awk since I hadn’t made an appointment, and I stood there brazenly like a queen making a declaration to her public all the while wreaking of sour milk. You see, I had merely rinsed the spit up from my locks the night previously because I just did NOT have the energy to actually wash my entire head. Just the thought pains me, it is so exhausting. The hair stylist seemed to take it in stride, probably sensing my sleep-deprived desperation (or because she was terrified of what the crazy, smelly lady might do) and saw me immediately.

I may have pulled a Madame Defrage and menacingly rubbed my palms together while chanting, Guillotine, guillotine, guillotine, as the hairdresser took her scissors to my locks. Maybe. Perhaps.

DON’T JUDGE ME! Tale of Two Cities is James’ favorite book. I’m not the Dickens nut, he is. I’m just a nut.

Clearly.

And now I can’t stop bouncing around with my fresh, new do. Such relief! Literally, the weight differential is astonishing. I can’t wait to step on the scale tomorrow. Easiest diet move, E-V-E-R.

I am re-energized. Like, I might even be able to brave the shower today. Astounding, I know.

Presenting the new-do, and my bathroom glamor shot because I am one classy bitch.