The new 'do

So here I am inspecting my new haircut.
At least one side of it.
Wait. Let me back up.
Okay. . .inhale. . .exhale. . .
I used to say that the one thing I was vain about was my hair. I've never been much into makeup or clothes or fashion or style or looking all that put together.
But I always. Always. Had decent hair.
Ever since college I had had a cute cut. (This was not terribly difficult while living in Austin, where cute/sexy/trendy haircuts just seem to fall out of the sky.)
Then I moved to Houston to pursue gainful employment and the struggle to find the right stylist began.
I tried suburban stylists (horror). Galleria stylists (again, horror). Trendier, hipper stylists. Stylists with more tattoos. Fewer tattoos. More highlights. Fewer highlights. More colors. Highlights that matched their fake fingernails.
It's been hit or miss, to say the least.
And then I found her. . .Anne. . .the stylist I'd been dreaming about. It was a whirlwind romance. So blissful. So stylish. So perfect.
The only problem?
Anne lives and works in Ireland.
I no longer live in Ireland.
See the dilemma?
So I have a baby and even my one vanity hits the back burner.
I got a decent cut in. . .um. . .March. And I was back to the salon yesterday in search of something I had had so many times before. . .the haircut.
Simple, right? I've had this haircut for much of my adult life. I brought in a photo of myself with said haircut (taken after Anne's final masterpiece. Sigh). I thought: "No problem! Easy peasy!"
Insert laugh out loud here.
It was a CUT-ASTROPHE!!!
The stylist (plenty of tattoos, highlights, colors) was a total bee-hatch, to begin with. And she smelled like a smoker. Yuck. After cutting on my hair for an hour and a half with lots of, ahem, instructions (I like to think of them as suggestions) from yours truly, she virtually kicked me out of her chair and was all, "yo I'm Audi 5000. Somebody check this girl out and give me another cig 'cause that was ruff."
I had suggested all I could for this poor lady and we had to part ways before it came to blows (did I mention she was cutting my hair with a razor? that wouldn't be pretty). And now I have two different haircuts on one head.
Sigh.
The frustrating part? I spend so little time on myself that it's really disappointing when:
A: the time I do spend is not relaxing (I was totally stressed because she was not cutting my hair right)
and
B: the results are not great

Honestly, if you took a look at me on the street it would look fine. Not that you would be able to notice my hair with my absolutely adorable child nearby anyway. . .
But I know it's not right, and that really hacks me off.
So you're sitting there reading this going: "Jeez, lady, just go back and get someone to fix it."
Sure. Easy. No problem. Except that someone has to watch the baby. And not just anyone 'cause he sure doesn't put up with being left for sure.
So, anyway. . . I may need to tinker with it some more, but I have "the 'do" again.
And hopefully I won't wait so long before I take more time for myself again.