So this week I told my doctor that I really wanted HIM to deliver my baby, if possible. This seemed like a reasonable request to me, especially considering the unpleasantness that occurred last time I had a stranger deliver my baby (I can't discuss it in polite company, but if you want to know, you can call me because I LOVE talking about it.) So, anywho, after I gave him what I believed was the highest compliment a doctor in his profession could receive, he flat out rejected me:
"Well, all my partners pretty much do things the same. And it's not like you really know me THAT well. I mean, we just met." This was not very reassuring given the circumstances in which we were having this discussion. I mean, if he doesn't know me, then who DOES?
Of course, it is TRUE that the doctor is really only there for the last five minutes of the labor/delivery experience. So what does it matter? My dignity flew out the window four years ago when I had baby #1, anyway.
So, back to my dignity, I got my hair cut the other day. I went in with a picture of Uma Thurman with bangs, hoping I could go from ugly big forehead girl, to sophisticated woman, like she appears to do in this picture courtesy of Marie Claire:
I also wanted some layers and some length taken off. Well, the man who cut my hair REFUSED to take off more than 1 inch. And the layers are hardly noticeable. And he studied the picture of Uma for like 10 minutes, stepping away from it, squinting, holding it up to my face, etc. All this time, I'm thinking "oh, good. He's really going to try to make my bangs look like hers." He snipped some hair. Things were going well. THEN, the blow dryer and round brush came out....
Ten minutes later I was walking through the mall with the largest bangs ever seen and sopping wet hair. I guess blow drying the entire head is beyond the scope of this man's capabilities. I kept trying to flatten my bangs, but they bounced right back. They were bouyant bangs. If I had been in a swimming pool, they could have kept my whole body afloat. So I kept saying very loudly "Why did that man have to go nuts with my bangs, Holden?" At times like these it is really good to have a three year old in tow, because you can talk loudly to them in order to convey messages to the strangers who are staring at you ("Hey, it's not my fault. The man at the haircutting place did this to me. I'm suffering more than you are, trust me!" etc.). Holden is good for that. And he's a good shopper. And he kept saying "I don't know, Mom. But your hair looks BIG."
Now I am ok with my bangs because I have avoided the round brush. But I am unhappy with the rest of my hair. I look like those people who go on "What Not To Wear" and cry when they get their waist-length hair cut off. Since when did I become one of those people? My new hair model is Reese Witherspoon. Because, let's face it: I'm no Gwyneth Paltrow. I'm no Reese Witherspoon, either. But somehow she seems more attainable. Perhaps it is because she has two kids, neither of whom are named "Apple."
So, this is my latest idea:
At least I am not trying for Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen hair. I've really grown up. Can't somebody make my doctor see how far I've come? Then maybe he'll want to deliver my baby.