Crisis is a relative term. In my work with seventh and eighth graders, their definition of crisis is very different from the rest of the world. Crisis for them is their best friend isn't talking to them. Or another girl likes your boyfriend (that you've dated for an entire two weeks in a row), is trying to steal him away, and is telling everyone in school that you are a skank. For me, my crisis is about my hair.
My appointment for cut and color was timed perfectly. I carefully scheduled the appointment two days before the due date of the girl who does my hair and knows how picky I am. I mean, how often does a first time mom deliver early anyway? Coincidently, this was the day before my date. You can't ask for more perfect timing. Except that she delivered early. Which left me in my living room, screaming, "Why? WHY? Why do bad things happen to me?" OK, not really. But I was bummed. (Mom and baby are doing fine; I'm not a total, uncaring bitch.) The earliest time I could get an appointment was Saturday morning. That doesn't help me look fabulous for my date. Who wants to go on a date with grey roots, especially a first date? We all try to hide things like that until at least date 5 or 6. I know that real people don't notice the grey as much I do. And I know that boys probably have less of a chance of noticing anything about hair color. But that doesn't change the fact that I know the the grey is there. Like I said, crisis.
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