My intentions for today were to get up at 4:30 and act like it was a school day. I wanted to wake up, get myself ready, get Kinley ready for day care, etc Even though I don't start till next week, this week is my "dry run" week. Well, all was good with the intentions...until Kinley got me up at 4:00 to nurse, I went back to bed at 4:30 to just have some pillow talk with the husband and then the next thing I know, it's 6:30. Crap. I fell asleep.
So I hurriedly jumped into the shower and pretended that it was 4:30. Oh well.
Kinley got up at 7 and we started our day. I knew that I had to be out of the house no later than 10:45 so that I had time to stop and make a copy of my license for her day care lady (I'll just call her D, sounds so much better than "day care lady".....reminds me of "lunch lady" and that's not a very nice title).
I made her lunch and packed it into little containers. I packaged up two snacks and her bottled water, her sippy cup and extra outfit. Cleaned out the diaper bag, because it holds all things baby and all things non-baby (coupons, receipts, wrappers, ummmm, trash). I couldn't let her see my unorganized diaper bag. How embarrassing. So I cleaned that out and then printed out the little Kinley forms that I made to explain her day at home so far and what to expect for the rest of the afternoon. Yes, I made "Kinley's Day" forms. With her picture on them and a cute font. Sue me.
Only five minutes late, we were out of the house. I got my license copied at the cute little copy shop down the road (I love that place, the little old man owner is so stinkin' cute. Well, not really, but kinda. And his name is Sterling. Love it.) and on to day care we went. She lives only fifteen minutes from us, so it's a short drive.
I used our time in the car to explain to Kinley that mommy was going to be going to school and she would be going to play with "D" and her two boys "J" and "M" and that she would have so much fun and that mommy would always come back. By this point in the story, I'm sobbing and my mascara is running and I'm spending more time turned around looking at her to make sure she's fine with everything, instead of paying attention to the road. (Ummmm, it's not texters that are the problem, it's moms like me.) She just kept looking at me like "mommy, why are you crying?!" She obviously didn't care at all about what was going to happen. She had no clue. But I did. And I cried. Hard. And I had her Winnie the Pooh doll up my shirt the whole way in hopes that it would somehow soak in every last ounce of my scent to help ease her into her afternoon nap while I was away.
I managed to drop her off without crying. And she didn't cry either. It was rather simple, actually.
But I cried all the way to the salon.
Oh, the salon. How I wish I had never made it there.
Let me start by saying that these are the pictures that I took with me and went over with the stylist.
I told the stylist (I don't even want to call her that) that I liked the top picture best. She asked if I wanted that color and I said no...I want my natural color, sans highlights. Girl that cuts hair then says, "I love when clients bring pictures so that I know exactly what they want." Hmmm. I then explain to her that I want to give to Locks of Love but didn't think I would be cutting enough. She agreed with me and said that they need at least 6 inches and I would only be losing about five. Ummmm, okay. Great.
The girl that cuts hair then says, "I'm just going to do a quick dry cut so that I don't have to apply color to a ton of hair that I'm going to cut off anyway." Sure. Great. Whatever. You're the "professional."
Whack, whack, whack.
Wow. Okay. I'm okay with that. I was prepared for a shorter length.
She applied the color. I sat under the dryer. She washed the color out. Sat me back in her chair. And she began to Edward Scissor Hands my head.
I was panicked. She just didn't stop cutting! I said to her, "Ummmm, it's getting really short" and she said "it's the layers...it looks like more than it is." I just kept telling myself that it just looked shorter from the front and that I had my "to my armpit" length in the back.
She started to dry my hair with the round brush and blow dryer and I think that it was at that moment that she realized that she messed up.
She dried it and dried it and brushed it and brushed it.
Stop lady! You're not going to stretch it. You're not going to pull it out longer. YOU MESSED UP.
It was all that I could do to get out of there before breaking down into tears.
I paid the $105 and ran out.
I haven't cried so hard in years.
My pride and joy....my long hair....is gone.
She cut almost 10 inches off of my head. And she didn't do it gracefully so that I could donate. No, she chopped at it in little pieces so that all that was left was tiny shreds on the floor.
And she's the salon manager.
Don't go to Ulta in Wheaton. Please. (and I don't live in Wheaton, so don't stalk me there, you won't find me. and if you are a stalker, go to Ulta there in Wheaton, Shana does an amazing job.)
Now what? I'm ugly. I hate it. My hair is not what I wanted and I have no idea how she got this from the pictures I brought to her. No idea.
Let it be known, my natural color is not almost black. Great matching job there, genius.
My husband offered to go and get me extensions. I just want my hair back. Too bad there is no return policy.