As you may know, I’m always deep and thoughtful.

I post only meaningful and well-written articles on my blog.

Like the one about my hair and what exactly I should do to it.

After reading through your suggestions, for which I emphatically thank you, I settled on a plan.

In the end, I took advice from wise, wise women like my friend, AJ, who wrote:

You have five kids. A husband. Extended family. A job. A big house. Food prep, homework, cleaning (or going away so your husband can clean), church duties, etc. Why would you want to be responsible for one more thing, especially your hair?!!  Hello: shovel that off on the appropriate person, a.k.a. hair stylist.

I like AJ for her hair smarts, but very especially — yes, I said “very especially,” and I meant it, too — for making me sound as though I’m extremely busy every minute and don’t spend time sitting on my rear editing photo after photo of my hair.  I’m making hand hearts at you, AJ.

I began Operation: Shovel My Hair Off Onto A Hair Stylist immediately thereafter.

That’s when I ran into Problem #1.  Good, salon-based hair dressers are:

• Planners
• Schedulers
• Appointment makers

And here’s Problem #2:

• I live my life in a constant state of emergency.
• I don’t make advance appointments.

Instead, I have crises to be solved.

Yes, I know I should practice prevention.  Especially hair-disaster prevention.

But when it comes to hair, I’m like the frequent Emergency Room visitor who drives up the cost of national healthcare.

If we had national haircare, I’d be used as an example on all the political news shows.  Half of you would feel sad for me.  Half of you would be angry at me.  And, frankly, that’s a tough way to live.

So if you’re wondering why it took me two weeks to update you on my hair — and I know you were thinking about it nonstop, because my hair is so very important to you — it’s because a) hairdressers make advance appointments, and b) I’m a freaker who needs immediate, emergency help.

Enter a fabulous solution in my friend, Anna, who’s a hair dresser and a stay-at-home mom.  That awesome combo meant there was room in her schedule for a freaker like me to go over to her house at 7:30pm for “is there any way you can help me soon — like this week??” hair time.

Yay, Anna!

I let Anna, who’s more style-savvy than I will ever be, do whatever she wanted.

Whatever she wanted turned out to be a medium-length, layered cut with lots of color.  Blond, red, and chocolate streaks to be exact.  SO much more modern than I have ever been.

Sadly, I then discovered Problem #3:  I’m not sure how to ask people to take pictures of me pre- and post-hair.

It’s embarrassing.  And awkward.

Although it will undoubtedly come as a shock to you, modeling isn’t my calling in life.

I probably should’ve considered that before I posted about my hair in the first place.

But I didn’t.

So when I got my hair cut last week (yes, an entire week ago), I was kind of in a bind.

I took this picture of myself pre-haircut as a “before” shot:

Because somehow I was under the mistaken impression that taking a picture of myself in a public bathroom and subsequently posting it online is less embarrassing than just asking someone else to take a picture of me.

I guess it was a “humiliation now” or “humiliation later” kind of dilemma.  I obviously elected “humiliation later.”  Except I forgot that eventually “later” would be “now.”

I hope you’re laughing.  Because that’s the only thing that makes this kind of post worth it.

Hoping to learn from my “before shot” awkwardness, I asked other people to take my “after” shots.

Like Cai, who’s 4.

‘Cause a 4-year-old makes an excellent photographer in the bathroom at the cupcake shop.

Right?

What do you mean you can’t see that?

Oh, good grief.

Fine.

How’s that one?

Better?

Yeah, I know it’s still in a bathroom and you can’t see the highlights.

Which is why I made Greg and Abby take some a few days later.

Are you catching on as to the timeline of this story?

I admit it… it got way out of hand.

Photo by my 12-year-old:

She loaned me her necklace.  She said I’d look more hip.  Except she didn’t use the word hip.  Because that’s not hip.

Here’s a photo with my 12-year-old, taken by my 38-year-old:

Gosh, she’s just so cute!

And here’s a photo with my 38-year-old taken by my 12-year-old:

I think Mario looks fabulous.

This is a photo Abby accidentally took of the sun:

Which was exciting because we don’t get much of that in March where we live.

(Hi, Sun!  We miss you.  Come see us again sometime.  Just because my kids shriek at you and yell, “Too bright!  It hurts my eyes.  Make it stop, Mommy!” doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate you.)

And this is a close-up of my highlights and lowlights, taken by Abby when she remembered to flip the camera away from the sun:

It’s also a picture that reminds me that we might want to do something about the moss growing in our driveway.

FYI, “might want to” is not synonymous with “going to,” for which I sincerely apologize to our neighbors.

All in all, the hair change has been a fabulous experience, time spent in bathrooms notwithstanding.

I like feeling a little more up to date, and a little less frumpy-chic.

I like supporting the business of a mom who’s working out of her house.  Especially one who’s as talented as Anna.  And, more specifically, one who will take it out of my hands and tell me what to do.

And, probably best of all, I like going on a date to the cupcake shop with my 4-year-old.

This is Cai measuring the velocity of a cake pop:

Measuring the gravity of a cake pop:

Measuring the velocity and gravity of a cake pop:

Wondering why the velocity and gravity experiments didn’t result in a satisfying crash landing all over the table and floor…

…’cause things never hold together that well at our house.

And, of course, asking when we get to break into the box of a dozen I promised to bring home to the rest of the family.

All of which proves that there are much, much more important things in life than hair.

And that cupcakes are right at the top of the list.