Close-up blow-out

So, when you read this I will be on a plane, heading to the other coast. I'm making a presentation on Monday morning for My Job. I got a haircut yesterday from a guy who's no bigger than my right thigh. He might have been about seven years old, too. He showed me a photo of his family -- a beautiful Filipino one -- and he pointed out his mama and told me that he'd made her beautiful. She was beautiful and about as big as my left thigh. She was probably about as old as me, too. When I get my hair cut, I steal glances in the mirror every now and then and feel nearly horrified. There's something about the wet hair slicked back, the creases by my nose and the chin, oh, the chin! I can't look away fast enough, and I might even hum as I  do. I can't even shift my head to make the chin disappear because I might mess him up, and I imagine what would happen if I just stuck my tongue out at myself. The no bigger than my right thigh hairdresser asked me whether I wanted my hair blown out, and I said, OK, sure. I felt different when I saw what he'd done -- I'm not a blow-out kind of woman -- and when the boys and The Husband saw me, they thought it looked good. I swear Sophie looked at me differently, but I can't be sure. A few people that I saw at Oliver's basketball game and Henry's lacrosse game exclaimed that I looked glamorous, that they loved my hair, what had I done, where was I going? Earlier, when I had asked the hairdresser what type blow-dryer I should buy as I don't own one and generally go au naturel, he told me that it wasn't the blow-dryer but the technique that mattered, which basically means this is the last time my hair will look like this because I can't be bothered to do what it takes, at least until I go see him next time. I thought ya'll should see it before I go back au naturel and let go, let God, let myself go.