Sgt. Costa

    I couldn't take it anymore, I had to cut my hair. Now, for me, this is a run of the mill activity. I used to get my hair cut whenever the whim hit me (and it hit me a lot.... generally after a bad test grade, argument, or if I got up on the wrong side of the bed). Hair cuts are a girl's go-to when she feels down. Nothing says, "You look gorgeous!" like a new do when you're depressed or having a fat day. Don't get me wrong, chocolate works wonders, but getting my hair done doesn't leave me feeling guilty, nauseous, or self-loathing. Although I adore chopping, coloring, and styling my hair in new and fun ways, my hubby is less than thrilled when he sees my day planner marked with a trip to the salon. Like most men, he prefers long hair. He also prefers straight hair (I should've warned him when he met me that my hair was not naturally flat.... in fact, in it's natural state, I bear a strong resemblance to a teased-out chia pet), but needless to say, I refuse to keep my hair in a state of annoyance just to keep my picky husband happy.
    During the week leading up to the big day, my man made the usual comments of not wanting me to look "butch" or like I'm joining the marines, nor does he want to hear the word "sassy" come from my lips to describe my upcoming chop. Alas, hair cut day arrived and I gave my stylist the go-ahead to remove the unnecessary 4 inches that were creeping down my back in frizzy spirals. She snipped and cut, gelled and dried, straightened and styled. I left feeling sleek and light-headed (literally, my head felt lighter). I arrived home and my anxious husband summoned me to the kitchen so he could yell at me for being a huge disappointment in the hair realm. I strutted into the room with all the confidence of a rock-star, wrapped my arms around him, and planted a big kiss right on his lips. Sergeant Costa reporting for duty! A coy smiled crept across my guy's face as he showed me (in no certain words) that he did, indeed, like my cut.