I took the little angel to Great Clips last night to get her hair cut.  We had to wait about forty minutes for the moment of truth, which was okay because there were some toys and books for her and Cosmopolitan for me.  Usually we go to Shear Madness, because I adore overpaying for a service while surrounded by toys and hair baubles I can't afford, but the little angel was in danger of being confused for a sheepdog, and I just didn't have the energy to haul her down south or make an appointment or anything like that.  Not after learning yesterday at 4:30 that it will cost me $2,214.57 to fix my cleaning lady's car. ARGH.

So there I was, feeling pretty defeated and useless, thinking how we could've installed new carpeting upstairs if I hadn't backed into that lady's damn car, which is probably worth exactly $2,214.57, when one of the "stylists" started using a hairdryer.

The little angel has developed a fear of loud noises in the past six months. When she was wee, she used to love it when I blew the hairdryer on her, making her little red strands dance.  Now she hates it with a passion I usually reserve for George W. Bush.

Anyway, someone fired up a hairdryer, and she looked up, frantic as a deer caught halfway across the highway, the exact same expression on her face that I see on our favorite bunny's when he catches us watching him out the kitchen window.  I got ready to launch into the comfort mantra that I have repeated ever since they put the little angel on my chest when she was thirty seconds old.

But I didn't have to.

She looked around, saw me sitting there reading an article about Dr. McDreamy Patrick Dempsey, and proclaimed to the waiting room, "Mama's here. Mama's here."

And then, I didn't feel so worthless anymore.