I decided on a whim yesterday that Dorothy should have a haircut. Her hair was really long in the back and short in the front and had gotten really awkward to style. Also, I have been trimming her bangs and while I have been doing a completely kick-ass job of keeping them cool and not geeky terrible little kid short straight bangs (the secret is to cut them a teeny bit below the eyebrow and to always leave them longer on the sides-- cut them like a rainbow, and make sure they are always almost too long), I did a piss poor job of figuring out where they should start, so they pretty much started on the very back of her head. Oops.
Clearly, she needed a professional to give her a trendy cut that would grow out gracefully because princess hair is obviously her thing.
We spent the whole ride home from my parents telling her how awesome it is to get a haircut and calling salons because once I decide to do something hair related, I pretty much always do it instantly. Most places were booked (duh), so I ended up making an appointment at Ulta.
Cooper tagged along because haircuts are synonymous with "lollipop" in his mind (I told him like 86 times that the place had no lollipops, but he didn't believe me and and lost it at the end, so Ben bought a bag of Tootsie Pops at the grocery store thanks to an urgent text from yours truly, and all was well).
The guy slated to cut Dorothy's hair was so annoyed when he saw that his client was a 2-year-old. He was really sulky and slouched over to the supply closet to get booster things to put in his chair. I asked him if he was going to shampoo her (because we talked up that part big time in the car), and he looked like he wanted to kill me.
Here she is closing her eyes because she requested the red shampoo and then told the guy it might hurt her eyes.