My hair has been a dried-out nest of split ends for about 3 weeks, and tonight I made the time to get it cut. Even though I know better (I've been burned before), I decided to go to one of those cheap, chain haircutting places; I just didn't have the energy to make an appointment. Of course, the cheap, chain haircutting place could fit me in right away.
Note to self: Never trust a service professional who isn't booked at lease a month out.
The girl who cut my hair had highlights so variegated she looked like a goddamn parrot. Regardless, I was desperate, and I thought (erroniously it turns out), "How hard can it be to trim straight hair?"
Note to self: You are an idiot.
I now have two levels of hair - one to my shoulders, the other to my ears. I look like a topiary. I have a shelf on my head.
I came home raging, in tears, upset about the bad haircut but mostly mad at myself for willingly entering this situation.
I wanted to call up Rainbow Brite and tell her that if I did my job as badly as she had just done hers, people would die. That's not true, but I'd say it anyway. And I wanted to tell her to keep the $16 I'd spent to look like a quaker with a mullet, because she obviously needed it for beauty school.
But then I thought, "oh my god, it was $16 and she stands on her feet all day cutting the hair of people who probably ignore her, and really, I feel sorry for her."
I'm still pissed off about my hair - it's so bad I'm going to have to get it cut again just to undo the damage - but I'm over my anger at the cockatoo. She can't help it, she was probably blinded by chemicals from her striped hair leaching into her scalp.
After the storm of fury (and many, many minutes spent petting the dogs and listening to Brad tell me, "it's reall not that bad"), I started to think about dinner. Being all wound up, I was seeking comfort food, and the thing I've been wanting most lately is the old Italian staple of peppers and eggs.
Thinking of my little Grama, who was always, always cooking, and who made the most delicious peppers and eggs in the world, I passed over the olive oil for butter - her pan grease of choice.
I sauteed the onions the peppers in bubbly, hot butter, then poured in the whisked eggs and stirred. I ate them with toast and more butter (I guess I'm on a kick), and temporarily forgot about how my now head resembles a toadstool.
Jen is right. It's best to use real butter.