Ok, so there really isn't a countdown to engagement photos (though they are happening in October), but it feels that way because of my latest to-do list, which includes booking a hair cut in the next four weeks and buying Crest White Strips (come on, I tell you Priests are refusing to marry us and I'm not going to cop to trying whitening strips? Please.).I know I live in a thriving metropolis where I could find dozens of people willing and able to cut my hair in its preferred style: long. Seriously, every time I got to get it cut, I just get it cut. Two to three inches off the bottom, please. It's not that hard.
But the truth is, I've had my hair cut by the same man back in Florence, Alabama since I was seven. I kid you not. I got bangs with one lady when I was seven and that was it, we changed salons (not related to the bang incident, I don't believe) and never went back. So for the past 18 years, it just been me and Andy.
I heart Andy. He knows I have no idea what I want my hair to do, and he's talked me out of some baaaaad decisions, but now I'm addicted. I'm afraid to go someplace else for fear that they'd misinterpret my pathetic instructions (keep it long, a little shorter on top, which means to trim it in layers) and instead I'd leave with a mullet.
So, in sum, rather than find a place in Birmingham over the next month, I've opted to book an 8:15 appointment the day I'll be in Florence checking out rehearsal dinner sites. I could say that part of me knows what I want, but the reality is that I'm pretty sure that most of me is still 7. Either way, Andy's my mane (ha) hair man. Who knows what will happen when I move to Durham. "Honey? I'm flying home to Florence for the day... no reason."
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