Day two.

Tick tick tick tick tick...

Craig, my hairdresser, rocks my world. How has it taken me 40 odd years to find a hairdresser who knows my hair better than I do?

I went in this morning to get a hair cut and he wouldn’t cut it! I explained my problem with looking like a bush and he said there was no way for him to cut it and make it look better – I just had to wait. He didn’t even offer to trim it. He voluntarily saved me an $85 haircut. Dude.

This is a haircut that’s now almost 5 month old and I though it was starting to look pretty crappy. He suggested I put it up with clips (and showed me how so it looked good, not like I was going for a run! - just say no to the ponytail, girl.) and then he ironed it for me. Man, it looked just awesome! So good I actually went out and bought a flatiron. Me, the girl who doesn’t own a single tool fancier than a hairbrush. How could I not? He took my slept-on hair and turned it into fresh from the salon hair in about 5 minutes. I am in love.

Carolyn and I went shopping after my hair affair. Instead of spending vast sums of money, I returned 2 Buzz Lightyears, the bad jacket and my beloved shoes. It was sad, but necessary and a net gain of $200 even after the flatiron. A good day, I’d say.

As opposed to detailing the bizarre phone messages I would like to leave Fairycakes, I will burden you with this lovely song, sung to the tune (such as it is) that goes with the every popular “I’m fucking Matt Damon” clip. If you substitute FC’s real name, it fits the song perfectly, but for obvious reasons I’m not gonna put it in here.

I’m fucking FC
In my dreams every night
I’m fucking FC
And it feels oh so right.

I’m fucking FC
In the car, on the floor
And in building 84.
On the plane, by the TV
And of course in 93.

I’m fucking FC!

Ever wondered if I have too much time on my hands?