I was a good girl this morning. I got up early and wrote out all the bills.

Now ask me if I mailed them.

I love my hairdresser, Helga. She knows exactly what to do with my hair, the cut that will look right, the color that's right for my skin tone, the kind of product that will work with my stick-straight, fine hair.

Until lately, that is. Lately the color hasn't been as bright blonde as I like--it's more dishwatery with a lot of strawberry--but I didn't complain because I knew it didn't look bad. The cuts weren't quite right, either, they were too short or out of balance. But I didn't say anything because I thought I just wasn't clear about what I wanted.

All of this dissatisfaction began at the same time that Helga and I somehow transformed our relationship from client/hairdresser to something more like friends. Helga is the kind of hairdresser that tells you *her* problems, rather than the other way around. But they were pretty severe issues--she was breaking off a 10 year relationship--so I listened and offered advice when I could. And I do care about her as a person. But now, with this new level of intimacy, how do I tell her that I don't like what she's doing with my hair?

Today it was the worst. Instead of having a sleek, professional 'do, I'm all shaved in the back and looking like a drowned rat. I do *not* look good with hair this short. It's much too severe. And it's making me feel ugly and cranky.

We have an important presentation tomorrow morning at work. I'm feeling confident, I think. I'm telling myself that I know my shit, my partner knows his shit, we have a strong ally in the meeting, and we can absolutely help these people. I just hope they think so. If we lose this I may have to start looking elsewhere. After this job, there's only one prospect on the horizon and it may take too long to close it to help us out.

- march 5