(Failbook WIN. Check out the comments on the original post [click the image] because they’re almost as good as the post itself.)

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On April 7, I wrote this post begging Mah Peepull for hair advice. You voted to bravely soldier on, and I did, Mah Peepull! I did! For another THIRTY FOUR WHOLE DAYS.

Then Tom told me to shut the hell up about my stupid hair for the love of pete I considered my options carefully and with no malice aforethought, I called my hair-cutter gal and told her to HACK IT OFF ALREADY.

She did my bidding and spun me around in the chair and what to my wondering eyes should appear…

I’m back! I’m ME again!

Next time I ask you for hair advice, please feel free to squeeze my lips together and flick me in the forehead. At the same time. It’s why God gave you two hands, Mah Peepull.

Listen, I realize there’s important events happening all over the world at the moment. People being born, people dying; natural disasters, large and small; nations fighting, governing, and signing treaties. I acknowledge the significance of all these life-changing activites.

But we need to talk about my hair.

I’m thisclose to ripping it out and setting it afire upon the altar of cosmetology. And, I should add that I am not averse to gluing it onto a chicken beforehand if it would help.

In November 2003 i had long curly hair. I felt cute and perky and a little ditzy. One day with no warning, I cut off 12 inches of hair and gave it to Locks of Love.

(You’ll have to Google that if you don’t know what it is; I’m composing this post on my iPhone and can’t be bothered to go through all the rigamarole of looking up the link in Wikipedia and adding HTML to link it.)

(Although factoring in how long it took me to type that last sentence, I might as well have taken the time to just do it.)

(Whatever.)

Anyway, it was short. Like, an inch to two inches long on top and a 1/4″ on the sides and back, depending on if I was getting it cut every four weeks or six. Which, by the by, gets expensive.

I love having short hair. It’s easy. I put a little mousse in it, play with the top for a minute to get it just the right amount of messy-on-purpose, and I’m out the door. It looks professional yet playful. It makes me feel sassy and confident.

Events transpired and conspired.

Everytime Tom looked at pictures of me with my long hair, he remarked on my curls and how much he missed them.

My beloved hair-cutter-gal decided to quit and go back to school and I couldn’t imagine anyone else getting scissors within a two foot radius of my person.

My last haircut was by hair-cutter-gal in her last week in her salon; the second week in August.

I almost sobbed on the way out that day.

My hair and I decided to go into mourning, just a step short of wearing sackcloth and piling on smoldering ashes.

We made a deal. I would let hair grow, and hair would not get in my way.

Hair reneged on the deal like the lying wench she truly is.

Hair staged a full-on mutiny, flipping up and out and in angles only previously achieved by a cirque du soliel performer.

I persevered. I fought back with gel and mousse and headbands and tiny barrettes.

In the best case scenario, Hair reluctantly complied to the smallest extent absolutely necessary. At worst, a beastly temper tantrum reared its ugly head and Hair was beaten back into reluctant, pouty submission.

I am growing weary of the battle. Hair has proven to be a tough and worthy adversary with plenty of fight left.

Tom says he doesn’t mind one way or the other, although I suspect he secretly harbors a preference for long curls.

What say you, Mah Peepull?

Give up and get shorn? To recap; expensive, sassy, professional, with a husband yearning for curls?

Or bravely soldier on? To recap; cute, perky, sexy, ditzy, with a husband happily twirling ringlet curls around his fingers?

Mah Peepull shall be heard!

I’m sure you’ll all collectively breathe a huge sigh of relief that I’m starting to come out of my funk. Oh, for crying out loud, just pretend and let me dream, Mah Peepull. Assume a caring, nurturing expression and nod a lot. I don’t care if you’re actually thinking about Chia Ninja Snails and/or switching to Bounce from Downy while you do it. Just do it. February is always the hardest month for me to get through, then March hits and I’m in the home stretch to spring.

This helped my mood brighten… When I turned in my latest Photoshop post for review at Blissfully Domestic, my editor posted it then emailed me to tell me she loved it and to eHighFive me. Which I’m pretty sure is illegal in at least 13 states and is consequentially and simultaneously 11 kinds of hawsum.

The only drawback is the subsequent testing I’m going to have to undergo at the eClinic for eSTDs. I shouldn’t worry about it too much, though. There’s probably an eShot or an eCream for that.

By the way, you should click that link up there, run over and leave a quick comment on my post. It’ll help me perpetuate the rumor that I’m popular or something.

By the way squared, even if you don’t give a rat’s patootie about Photoshop, you should comment anyway. We don’t discriminate against non-Photoshoppers, so feel free to just say anything, such as what year you discovered Britney Spears was actually pretty lame. Or maybe just apropos of nothing, name any color a la that Facebook craze that reigned for six crazy days where we told the color of our bras and giggled like sixth graders. Don’t be boring and just red. Meh. Say, Burnt Carrot! Or, Used Coffee Grounds Sienna! Or, Open Herpes Wound Crust! Or… uh…

Clearly, I have some issues. But there I go again– Thank you, Colonel Obvious! (After someone said to me a few days ago, “Wow, you look kind of tired or sad or something”  the Captain was promoted to Colonel.)

I just realized I discriminated against people who haven’t come to the realization that Britney Spears is lame. Irony, Mah Peepull, irony.

What’s your favorite smelling hair product? Mine is Garnier Fructis, and have my sister to thank for that discovery.

Biolage is a close second, and Cathy (the gal who gives the boys Mohawks) turned me onto that line.