The Tink. Take Two.

Good gravy (which is, after all, a fun, down home Southern cookin' alternative to good grief)! Alright already. I'll post a picture. The thing is this. This is the thing. The thing is--no I'm not stalling--I actually thought it was somewhat manageable on Sunday. Then, my husband saw it for the first time when it was completely unstyled. He cocked his head this way and that and examined me as though he was a plastic surgeon and I was his human canvass. Later that night, my stick straight, wet hair was plastered to the sides of my head. I was hunched over the toilet where I'd just recently thrown up more than I thought my body could even hold. Yes, it's true, two nights ago I, the world famous barfer, was at it again. But come on people, focus! This is about my hair! So there I was, clad in flannel pajamas, draped over the toilet like it was my conjoined twin, hair still wet from the shower--and, truth be told, probably a little vomit--and my husband says, "Your hair looks cute in a messy I just barfed kind of way."


And I'll be honest, it made me feel good about myself. Not so much that I was, apparently, rocking the post wretch hairdo as the fact that I have a husband who loves me so much that he will look at his wife who is curled up with a toilet still full of her own stomach contents, and compliment her lousy cut. If that's not living your wedding vows, I don't know what is.


Well. Yesterday I wore my glasses all day, looked a little wan, and had zero desire to style my hair. This morning he caught a glimpse of it, actually done, for the first time. There was a weird little lump in the back that I could not, for the life of me, get rid of, but otherwise I was actually kind of proud of it. It's nothing I'd have done on purpose, mind you, but it was decent. I felt confident.


Until.


My husband cocked his head this way and that. Then he, who has only ever had the shortest of short haircuts, offered a helpful suggestion, "Maybe if you just pull the straightener down and barely flip it at the end?"


"You mean, exactly like I did? Maybe I should do exactly what I just did?" Emphasis on exactly. "You only like my hair when I've just finished throwing up!"


"That is not true!" He backpedaled. He told me it wasn't bad. He promised that he doesn't hate it even though yesterday he did send me a text message with a picture of Tinkerbell bubble bath. He convinced me that he plans to stay married even though I have suddenly aged thirteen years and gone back in time several decades.

So...

Without further ado...

I give you...


My hair...


It's awesome. Right? Please stop making fun of how ridiculous my face looks. I was taking my own picture in the bathroom and it's just difficult to take yourself seriously when you're staring into a mirror and a camera lens, simultaneously. Wait? What? You're not laughing at my face? You're laughing at my hair? I know. I told you. It's absurd.

But at least you can tell that it is terribly short. This gives you some idea, does it not? Are you satisfied?

If you aren't, perhaps tomorrow I'll post a picture of what it really looks like.