Morgan the Beautician

Well it's been three months since we got married (ok minus a day), and that means my hair was getting ugly. You see in the summer it is pretty blonde from the sun, but in the winter my hair turns a color of ashen bone mixed in the mud with strands of straw poking out. Something like that.

Typically I would go to a professional and get my hair highlighted for some absurd price. Seeing as I don't have a job, and it's Christmas, and I no longer need to have perfect hair to attract the love of my life - turns out men don't notice these things near as much as we would think - I decided to buy a DIY Loreal highlighting kit. It was only 10 bucks, and the girl on the front of the box looked gorgeous, so naturally I would too!

I stood in the aisle at Safeway for 23 minutes. I read all of the boxes. I matched my hair to each. I contemplated. I prayed (just kidding, but I did think REALLY hard about it), and I purchased one. When Morgan got home I told him of my new and exciting way to save money and still look beautiful; he was spirited and we opened the box.

Out of the box came a million bottles and directions, gloves and caps, and smells. Morgan put on the gloves, pulled out the directions, and with some mad scientist skill we concocted my next hair color. Then, we put on a DVD of How I Met Your Mother. There are six episodes on each DVD, if we watch any, we usually watch two episodes per night. As we began the first episode, Morgan tied this holy hat on my head and began torturing me. By holy, I do not mean a yamaka (sp???), or a nun's cap, or a burqua - but rather a plastic cap with a million holes in it. Morgan then took a metal hook and pulled, yanked and tore strands of hair through the cap. Tears rolled from my eyes, as Morgan, the ultimate champ, pried pieces of my long hair through this hideous contraption.


I looked like this picture:

5 episodes later...

Morgan slathered on the creamy smelly product and there we sat for a whole other episode. When it was finally time to rinse, I ducked my head under the faucet, and fear began to take over me as chunks of hair came sliding out of my head. I started to panic, and the stupid white cap WOULD NOT come off my head. Morgan came to the rescue and tore my hair, tore my hat, but saved my heart by telling me no matter what happened I would still be beautiful. Somehow, bushels of hair later, Morgan removed that godforsaken hat from my head, and I proceeded to shampoo a rat's nest.

After about an hour of detangling and more tearing, I went to bed, fearful if I would have hair the next morning, and the color it might be.

When we woke up this morning, we both looked at our masterpiece, and my head looks pretty much the exact same way it did yesterday morning, just a LOT frizzier. We found like two strands of hair that may or may not be a little lighter.

Morgan is now much more enthusiastic about spending the 100 bucks to go to a professional, and I am even more in love with my husband who has bought me... feminine hygiene things... pretends to enjoy organic cafes, endured countless chick flicks, and has even highlighted my hair. This is the man who took me to see The Lion King on the night of the Apple Cup. This is the man who hates chocolate, but every time we share a dessert, orders a chocolate delight of some sort. He, my Morgan, really is the best one of the best ones. And it turns out, not even the most professional beautician can make me feel as beautiful as Morgan does.