What's a Girl to do with her Hair?

I need advice. My hair is at that "in-between" stage, supposedly between old style and something new. Trouble is, I don't know what I want. I can't stand it in my face. It's wavy (curly in the humidity), soft, and fine. When shorter, it has more body. It's got just a few strands of grey. Paul doesn't want me to color it because he says I'll be forever coloring it if I start. That's the story I hear from other friends, too. It's pretty forgiving of a bad cut (it grows fast and the curls hide woopsies). I really like my hairdresser and have developed a relationship with her to the point I'm also ready to invite her to the next round of Alpha meetings, and I don't want to risk offending her by going to a different stylist. She is artistic (photography mainly) but conservative with changes, at least in my experience. And best of all, the cut still costs only $18 at this place. (I don't pay to have it blow dried unless it's a bitter cold day or I'm switching styles altogether, which has been a long, long time.)

I want to find a style that's a bit different, without going drastically shorter or having to keep growing this mop. I'm of the opinion that most women over 40 should not wear long hair; there are exceptions, but I'm not going to be one of them.


So, what to do? I have a three-fold dilemma. First, I'm reluctant to go back to my stylist because she hasn't ventured beyond my own suggestions even when I've said, "You're the expert. Try something new." Second, I don't want to risk offending her by going to someone else who might be experimental. Third, I fear of the result of letting a pro I don't know do something terrible in the name of creativity.

The last time I did that was when Sarah was three weeks old. Ben was 13 months old. My world measured the square footage of two cribs and stunk like a dairy farm. I was postpartumly depressed and had been postpartumly housebound with ugly hair. I told this guy, "I trust you." Well, he made me feel wonderful with words like "lift" and "volume" and "pizzazz." Then he started cutting. And cutting. And cutting. He nipped out all the curl, parted my hair on the side, and razor tapered it at the neck. Paul was speechless. He wouldn't touch my butch head for five weeks. (I counted.) I spiraled into a really deep depression. I'm sure it was all hormonal, but I'll never forget the feeling of never wanting to trust someone again with my hair. I've just told them what to do. And now I'm really, really bored with it.

What should I do? It's not just about hair.

Oh! Did I mention school pictures are tomorrow, teachers included?