A Return

I had no idea that anyone read this blog; I try not to pimp it out on my Facebook because I don't want to become patronizing with it. But when I stumbled across it for the first time in months and saw recent comments, I blushed furiously.

Details of the moment: It is Easter, which means that it is April, which means that because I live several feet from one of the Great Lakes, my hair has reached epic Diana Ross proportions.

Ideally, I would've pulled off this cute number:

And oh, I wanted it so badly. I'm a huge sucker for the French "My hair is like this naturally" look. I struggled for about two hours, armed with a single bobby pin and two hair elastics, before realizing that my hair is about four inches too short. After crying for a while, I consoled myself by trying out a ballerina bun a la Charlize Theron, who is not French but managed to saunter her way into a J'Adore Dior commercial.

I'm not French either, and I also dabble in sauntering. Did it work? No. In my defense, did I have less than four minutes since I'd wasted two and a half hours on the other style? Yes. But this is perfect for those windy, humid days in Chicago; my hair won't whip into my face or reach a two-foot wingspan.

Happily, this correlates to the next post: hunting for a tutu. Why? I don't know yet, but I promise I'll find a reason.