How fairies have been pissing me off

I wrote about fairies pissing Tallulah off, but really it was about me being pissed off by Tallulah's pediatrician. So let me continue the theme and tell you more about me being pissed off by fairies.

Tallulah goes to her Grandma and Grandpa's house on Friday which is great for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is giving me some time away from playing superheroes. Kent has perfected playing Sleepy Guy, the superhero with magical powers of being able to sleep anywhere, but Tallulah doesn't buy my Clean the Kitchen Woman or Super Chef-- able to make dinner with magical tummy filling properties. She prefers me to be SpiderWoman-- and I get that. I'd prefer to have phermone and wall climbing powers, too, but unless that's a radioactive spider in your pocket....

Anyway. One Friday I decided on a whim to get my haircut after seeing a great short haircut in a magazine. A woman I know recommended a salon she goes to and I call them up, make an appointment for the late morning and head off for my day. I was feeling pretty smug because I had arranged my day so I could 1.) drop Tallulah at Grandma's 2.) take Moxie to the Selby Library baby storytime and 3.) get to my hair appointment with time for a nap in the afternoon thereby taking care of everyone's needs including-- for once-- my own. Good on me.

I get to the hair appointment with Moxie in my sling and ready for a nap and she drops off to sleep just as the hairdresser walks up. Damn, I think. I'm gooo-oood. Because I have timed it perfectly to have her nap for the entire haircut. She'll sleep for a solid half hour in my sling-- and no where else.

The hairdresser, however, does not seem as impressed by my magical feats of timing and organization. He gives a scathing look to me and my sling, but I'm so happy I misinterpret it as regular dickhead hairdresser behavior. The guy is a Du-ude. But after he pushes some paper around on the front desk he turns to me and says, are you ready? as though he expects me to whip a nanny out of my back pocket. Um, yeah, I say. What are you going to do with The Baby? he asks, all snotty. And I begin to realize that my morning is not going to go as planned. What do you mean, what am I going to do with the baby? I ask. You have a stroller or somewhere to put The Baby? he asks. No-o, I say slowly, she'll stay in my sling. Oh, you can't do that, he says. It's not safe. What if my scissors slip and fall on The Baby? Um, I say, it wouldn't be a problem for your scissors to slip and pierce my abdomen except for the fact of my baby sitting there? It's different with A Baby, he says with finality. So, I ask incredulously, you are refusing to cut my hair? Yes, he says, I wouldn't feel comfortable.

So I leave completely pissed off and end up going to get a haircut at some shitty place that fucked up the cut I wanted and gave me a shaggy, Q-tip Momcut. Bitches.

Now, to be fair, the salon called me back within fifteen minutes and the owner offered to cut my hair herself on Tuesday. Which pissed me off even more because I'm a woman with a baby strapped to my chest for a haircut. Does it look like I've got a lot of time and energy to be driving around back and forth for a goddamn haircut? Like I told Tallulah when she was a toddler, I don't fucking think so. And before you piss me off by writing a comment about how haircuts are the third leading cause of childhood dementia or blindness or gout, let me just say, I've had my hair done at Scott Thomas salon and Marmalade without anybody flinching or stabbing my baby. So what's up with Little Salon? And the du-ude hairstylist, Brian? Him and the Binky Fairy-- they're on the Bonifield Shit List.