Be careful home hair stylists....

I have not had my hair cut in six months. I used to get it cut every 4 weeks but that was when I had a mane like Rapunzel. After the Locks of Love donation, I felt lighter, but shorter hair seemed to take much more work. So I let it grow. And grow. My stylist came over to cut it last Friday. I quickly confess to him I have trimmed my bangs a few times. He assures me he already knows. I also quickly confess I colored my own hair 6 weeks ago. He narrows his eyes ever so slightly and tells me he will assess my skills (e.g the damage I self-inflicted) once he begins cutting.

I will be the first to admit in the last year, in the mass of dark hair I own, I have seen tiny gray hairs sprouting up like daisies in certain areas of my head. It started out small but oh, like rabbits, they multiply. And I am not against the gray hair. My husband is the salt and pepper fox. But similar to UPS, I like what brown can do for me.

Now you would think after CopperGate, I wouldn't dream of coloring my own hair. But when you chop off almost a foot of hair, coloring it at home is incredibly easy. And incredibly convenient. I can't sign up for hours at the salon. Haircut? Yes. Color? Well. I have a cape. A fantastic comb. And per the box, it really only takes 20 minutes.

My stylist, upon conclusion of my cut, told me he could not tell I had done it myself. Well let me reach right around and pat myself on the back. So this endorsement made me feel more confident than ever I could do it again. Flawlessly.

On Sunday afternoon, I don my cape (from his salon) and set to work. After the deep condition, I clean up my supplies as MiniMac comes into our room. He asks what I am doing and I tell him I am combing my hair. He then asks, "What is that?" I look to where he is pointing. A large brown spot discolors our large, fluffy, white bathmat. Uh oh. I forgot to move the bathmat. I tell him I spilled something on it. Like a sloppy Martha Stewart, I set about cleaning it immediately.

Be careful home stylists.

I take the rug downstairs to the laundry room as I hear MiniMac tell JMac "Mommy has to clean the rug, she spilled something on it."

JMac asks, "What did she spill?" (Because he has no idea.)

MiniMac replies, "Something brown. I think it was poop."

UMMMMM, NOT EXACTLY but I am not sure who laughed harder, my husband or me. His laughter only increased when I felt compelled to explain it was hair dye. In retrospect, I am quite certain I didn't actually need to clarify.

What a dichotomy: My fabulous stylist could not tell I colored my own hair but my 3 year old thinks I spill "poop" on the rug.