Living with a dude / It turns out I am a girl, after all

Normally I think "gender roles" are a pretty obnoxious concept-- but since we moved off to Sweden, I've had very little face-to-face contact with anyone except the mister. The past two months have forced me to acknowledge that I do, in fact, have a need for "girl-talk."* And it's been building for the past two months. I probably shouldn't blog in this state of mind... but I can't hold it in any longer.
Brace yourselves.

Usually, I'm as interested in my appearance as the next person-- a pretty major tomboy, but I still enjoy changing up how I look every now and then. (Okay, fine. Once a month.) (Okay, fine. I have a dark secret that I love doing people's hair, including my own.) (And makeup, yes. Hush. I'm trying to tell a story here.) Anyway, after about a month of living in Sweden, I started noticing that every single time I talked to my sister on Skype, I tried to start conversations about my hair.

GAWD. Dying this pixie-cut blond was a terrible idea. I can't wear anything green without feeling like Peter Pan. 

Look! I think my roots grew another eighth of an inch! That's how much google said they should grow every two weeks!

...etc. (I'm sorry to subject you to all that, but I needed to illustrate the extreme desperation of this situation)

All this drove my poor sister to secretly take screenshots and post them on facebook:

It's true. I looked like Little Baby Bieber.

I covered the bathroom floor in newspaper and busted out the extra-dark brown hair dye.

***

J:     (upon arriving home and looking in the bathroom) Why is there newspaper on the floor?
A:    (waiting for him to notice my snazzy new hair color) I made a mess.
J:     (looking around) Huh? I don't see anything.

...twenty seconds later...

A:   Okay, I'll just tell you... I did my hair! BUT LOOK! (proudly and excitedly pointing to my head) I left
       out some chunks. Cool, huh?
J:    What do you mean, you left some CHUNKS?! It doesn't look like you cut that much off...?!
A:    ...
        I didn't cut my hair.
J:     ... (looks confusedly at my head)
A:    Jason. I dyed it DARK BROWN.
J:    (gets shocked-and-slightly-ashamed look of realization, and quickly erupts in compliments)
A:    (cuteness of "shocked and slightly-ashamed look of realization" cracks me up as I hug him in 
        forgiveness)

If he doesn't notice THIS... then I doubt he notices bad-hair-days either. Sounds good to me.

Yeesh, look at that pose... maybe I am J. Biebs after all.

*The incredibly ironic thing about this whole post, and me calling it "girl talk,"  is the fact that my Dearest Papa Bear is the one who normally cuts my hair. Looking forward to another haircut when I get home, Dad : ) And yes, I'm going to yap your ears off the whole time.