Yesterday afternoon, I tried on at least four different outfit combinations for a bridal industry event my bestie's company was hosting in Lodo where Joe was playing a long set of his music. Sophie and I had been confined to the house for 48 hours, so she could take good naps in her bed and recoup from her cold. Little Miss Sneezy McSneezerson was still hanging around with her runny nose propoganda -- beware, beware! -- and phlegmy nursing sessions, but I ignored her because I needed to be around adults and high heels and lipstick (Sidenote: I just had to google how to spell phlegm. There is a silent 'g' because America.) As Sophie played in her exersaucer, I brushed my teeth, put on some makeup, and CUT OFF MY HAIR...Just like that.My hair has been falling out for months, and wayward-looking baby fuzz is finally starting to grow back in along my hairline. Yesterday, as I put on my blush, I thought to myself, "I hate those dead-ends. Medusa. Anorexic Medusa dead-ends." So I cut them off. Myself. Like the hairdresser I am (not). Like the stylist I spent years studying to be (nope). Like four inches. Impulsive.Afterward, Sophie enjoyed some much needed naked time where she practiced standing at her new toy-table and promptly peed all over her quilt (sorry Nana); I let her suck on an apple (Is that okay? Do other moms do that?); and then we took a selfie in our outfits. Any time I put on lipstick these days, I feel the need to document it. Proof that I can still exist in a world of lipstick and conversations about Foucault and climate change and stocks. I know nothing about stocks, I don't know why I said that. Anyway, I clicked Sophie into her carseat, took off her bow for the road (I'm no monster), sprayed myself with my new rose scent from the Idaho Springs all-natural Soap Shop, and watched my baby sneeze -- and sneeze again. I texted Joe that we weren't coming.Just like that.