On any given day, I estimate Andy give less than two shits about my hair. On our wedding night, when we were totally too drunk and exhausted to consummate things, we fell asleep in our clothes making silly life promises to each other.

Promise me you’ll never not be in the mood.

Promise me you’ll always think I’m the funniest girl you know.

Promise me you’ll never make me sell my car for a minivan.

Promise me you’ll never ask me if I really need to order two eggrolls.

Promise me you’ll never get a short mom haircut.

Promise me you’ll pretend you don’t notice when I poop.

Promise me you won’t use my razor to shave anything.

We’ve mostly kept all those promises to each other. Except for the razor thing, because really, his is always so much sharper than mine, and if it’s a choice between ending up with a vagina that looks like Michael Chiklis or Billy Crystal, I’m choosing Chiklis. But, Andy doesn’t drive a minivan, he doesn’t want for sex unless I’m puking or bleeding like a stuck pig, he still pretends the bathroom doesn’t smell like a lit match when I walk out, and to date…I’ve avoided my mother’s hair.

In fact, my hair has been a non-issue for me for a while, I haven’t dyed it in over a year. I just keep growing it out, taming the curls and frizz, and getting closer and closer to my goal of mermaid hair.

So, there I was coasting along just fine, until I spent a week in New York for a Lands’ End photo shoot and the stylist was all, OMG you have the best ombre dye job I have ever seen! And I was all, thanks, yes this is all totally happening on purpose, but in my head I was like, oh awesome, I’ve slacked my way into a fading hair trend. It was just like when I tried to bring the Rachel back in 2001 after I passed out after a bar crawl and woke up to having a wad of Fruit Stripe gum cut out of my hair.

I’ve been tossing around the idea of dying my hair for a while, a new color for a new outlook. Something that brightened my face, made my boobs look less hangy, my roots less like the entire last season of The Hills.

I went out to lunch with Andy and Gigi the other day, and over french onion soup I decided to try and get Andy to focus less on boring things like whatever the Dream Team is, and more important things, like Gigi’s ballet class, who will play Christian Grey in the Fifty Shades Movie, and what I should do with my hair.

I was thinking of dying my hair?

Not blonde I hope.

No, no not blonde. That color never stays in my hair, and everything I put in it turns copper, so I was thinking maybe… red?

Oh my God, yes.

Seriously?

Yes, like real read, not just little stripes of it. And leave it long, I love it long.

I had no idea you liked red heads so much?

*groans* Um yeah, yeah you need to do this.

Do you need to excuse yourself right now, Jesus?

Even Gigi was on board, so I made an appointment quick, and we spent the rest of the meal lost in our own ginger thoughts.

What Andy assumes I will look like.

What Gigi Assumes I’ll look like.

What I will obviously look like.

What I actually look like.

I’m smitten with Ginger, and I’ve never felt so sexy, and I think this will be a permanent feature. As for what Andy thinks? Let’s just all be thankful vasectomies don’t grow back.

(They don’t, right?)

(No, seriously, are vas deferens like starfish arms?)

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