Rob Peetoom cut my hair and now I'm ruined forever

Or well, ruined, but I'm just so afraid that it will never sit like it does now. I was, I combed, and I blow-dried and I'm done. It's new for me. This morning I forgot to put my hairspray in my gym bag and still walked around without a bag over my head from the gym to the editorial office. No shame, because my hair fell as it should fall. I think it's a miracle.

Actually, I would like a pause button for my hair right now. Everyone always says that I'm lucky that it always grows so nicely fast, and that's true when it accidentally doesn't sit at all, but now is not (I repeat: not) that moment. Rob's words were: as it is cut now and then two centimeters longer. That haircut has to be it, that suits me. This means that my hair will be phenomenal around Christmas, by the way, because then those two centimeters will surely be there, which is excellent news, but then?

Imagine wanting to cook like Ottolenghi and then he suddenly stands in your kitchen, for two months, providing you with a pinch of this and a vinaigrette of that and smoked (!) yogurt and so with pomegranate seeds. And then, bam, he's gone again. Or that Anna Wintour steps out of your closet every morning to hand you all sorts of ensembles in which you just look absolutely fabulous and one morning you open the door and it's just as big of a mess as it was and you're fiercely scrubbing that stain out of your wrinkled jumpsuit that you absolutely want to wear. There. That's how I feel about my hair and Rob.

I'm brooding over a solution, you understand. In the meantime, thank God I have Rowen who expertly observed what Rob did with my hair, as a safety net.