Roosting chickens?

For about 10 years I cut my own hair, and got progressively better at it - it can be self-taught if you're willing to endure some really bad haircuts. So, of course, I cut S-phie's hair when we started cutting it. In fact, I pride myself on being a little hippie, punk-rock DIY mama. I started getting my own hair cut professionally when I graduated from law school - I just didn't think the NC legal community was ready for my home-do. But it can only be insanity, vanity, and some sort of latent desire to sell out that made me decide that S-phie should go profesh. Or maybe it was just boredom that made me do it. Or the devil. I don't know. But I asked one of S-phie's friend's moms where her child, who always has a sassy little 'do, gets her hair cut and made an appointment with this "stylist."

S-phie's hair was a bob that had grown out to almost shoulder length, w/overgrown bangs. I asked the woman to cut the bangs and leave the rest of the length, w/just a little layering, hoping it would lighten up her thick hair and bring back some of her glorious toddler curls (greedy greedy greedy). I'm not sure where in that request she heard "give her hideous 70's-style layers close to her face and leave the back long and then make it all curl under and in toward her face like Kate Jackson from days of yore." Or did she hear me say, "give her a dorky, femmey pseudo-mullet?" Or was it something broader that she thought I said under the drone of the blow dryers, like, "break my heart." My pulse quickened as I realized what this psycho stylist was doing. At one point she asked if she should make it shorter in the back, which admittedly would have been less hideous, but I said no because I just wanted to get the hell out of there before she fucked up my sweet girl's lovely locks any further. I had a lump in my throat. Who knew I was so vain by proxy? The so-called stylist even said, "I've given her a bi-level and framed the face." A bi-level? Doesn't she know that's just a euphemism for mullet!?!? Of course I told S-phie how great it looked, etc., knowing all the while that I would cut it all off when we got home. In the car I told her how sometimes you have to adjust your haircut after you get home.

I got home about 4:50. I was going to wait until J-sh came home at 6:30 before I cut it, just to let him see the carnage. But what good does rubber-necking really do anyone anyway? I also thought of taking a picture to show him, but I didn't want it memorialized in any fashion. By 5:00 she had an ultra-short bob. It's been like that before and I like it, but she likes it longer, so as to be more "princess-y." I'm still having PTSD symtpoms over the "haircut" (I would call it a butcher-job, but I've never seen a piece of meat so inartfully cut as S-phie's bi-level) and S-phie is a little sad it's so short. I could attribute this whole incident to karma, since I seem to be convinced that all of these meaningless unpleasantries in my life have meaning, but I think this one falls under chickens coming home to roost, which is similar to karma, but more appropriate where there is a more definite nexus between the bad act (getting greedy and thinking S-phie should go profesh) and the bad result (see aforementioned "haircut.") My chickens have roosted before, so I know what I'm talking about (last 4th of July we took all the kids, including the 7 week-old twins, to a 4th celebration and concert in suburban hell and got caught in a deluge, which soaked everyone to the bone, and resulted in massive crying and hysteria, followed by an hour of trying to get out of the parking lot, during which time the babies screamed and we thought we were going to run out of gas, and my friend Anna commented, "That's what you get for celebrating your country.")