The Critical Mom's Hair Disaster

So I returned, the requisite eight weeks having more than elapsed, to get my hair cut before the Winter Semester break ended and I had to go in and teach.  The perfect hairdresser--as depicted in an earlier post--had evaporated, and a very kind, sweet young woman who remembered me and my family and had cut my daughter's hair appeared:  she had "always" wanted to cut my hair because she'd seen the two guys who used to work there cut it and she was sure she could do better.  Nervously, I announced that I wanted exactly the same cut as before, just a little shorter.  
"Yes," she breathed, "but with a few layers, it will look really good."  Did I blow dry my hair?  No I did not, I told her.  Almost never, that is.  Only when it's freezing cold outside--but I don't style it.  Never, not almost never, but never, never, never.  She found this very hard to believe and wanted to show me how very easy it was to have a great hairstyle--just "a few minutes."  By the end of the fifteen minutes that she considered to be "few," my hair looked spectacular.  
And all I had to do was buy a curling iron for about 170 euros or a styling brush and really, it was easy.  I went over to my office to pick up a few things and everybody noticed how great my hair looked.  And I have to admit it did look good, although I didn't look anything like myself.  My hair was bizarrely straight, helmet-like in fact.  And it looked so neat, too.  The hairdresser seemed as happy as I was dubious, since I was already wondering when I would ever have fifteen minutes to spend on my hair, or why I would want to.  I told myself it didn't have to be fifteen minutes and I didn't have to buy the dang curling iron; I could probably manage with that hair product she sold me and a nanosecond of blow drying and a regular brush.
This belief--entirely unfounded--got me through this morning, until I had to wash my hair and tried to flatten the bouncing, all-over-the place waves with the hair dryer.  I gave up.  I couldn't afford to be twenty minutes late to work.  So now, even my unbelievably tactful daughter says, "you know, it looks like of weird, Mommy," and to me it looks like a haystack.  With a few fences, broken ones, sticking out in weird places.  When it grows out, and oh, God, let it be soon!  Let it be soon!  I am going to find a hairdresser who understands that I don't have fifteen minutes to spend on--of all things--hair.  I just spent slightly less than that writing this.