I’m ashamed of myself. I’m praying that Sprog 2 wakes up well this morning. Not because I’m concerned about her health. Well, I am, but it’s not my primary motivation. She has been home for three days with a coldy/flu thing, but today I really need to shove her off to school because I have a hair appointment. Having a hair appointment seems a rather frivolous excuse for off-loading my child onto the public school system. Sprog 2 reckons her friend Donna had to lie on the cushions in the corner of the classroom on Tuesday because her mummy and daddy couldn’t come to pick her up. But I’m thinking their excuse might have been that they had to work. My excuse is that my roots are in a shocking state. I’ve waited months for this cut and colour. Getting an appointment with my hairdresser is like scoring an audience with the Queen. He’s very popular. If I don’t go this morning it’ll be September before there’s another opening. My roots will have grown out to my ears by then. Plan B involves Sprog 2 coming with me to the hairdresser. This will be an ordeal – for both of us – as getting a cut and colour takes about three farking hours. That’s two DVDs and lots of whingeing, with a cheese sandwich in the middle and various sugary bribes throughout. And while getting a cut and colour takes a farking long time, it’s also quite relaxing to have some enforced “me” time. A bit of magazine flicking why my colour sets, a chance to catch up on all the phone calls I never get time to make because I’m too busy blogging, a spot of gossiping as the hairdresser snips. My hairdresser has an awesome photographic memory. I’ve often wondered if that’s part of the job description – being able to remember endless drivel about your customers’ lives. As we’ve been together about 15 years now, that’s a lot of detail stored in his memory bank. We need to have a good chinwag about my non-existent professional life. We need to shake our heads at Husband’s latest antics. We need to discuss his new salon and how exciting it is that he’s finally gone out on his own. Sprog 2 fidgetting in the corner does not fit with those plans. So my fingers are ever-so-tightly crossed: please wake up relatively healthy this morning, my little Sprog. Mummy has things to do.