my husband really must love me

My parents were together 35 years, and I awaken much like my mother did. Just don't talk to me. You can give a grunt or single word greeting, but silence is preferred. Maybe I'll tell you the story of my father greeting me in the mornings during the Christmas visit to the in-laws in another blog. For now, I'll tell you about my whoville hair.
I don't quite have great hair. Any salon person will tell me that my hair is healthy, and I won't argue with that. I don't do much to my hair. I just brush it, wash it, condition it, and pull it back into ponytails or clips or buns of some kind. Several mornings of late, I have seen the blog fodder in the bathroom mirror. After 16 years of waking up to a woman that regularly looks like THIS:

or this:

he REALLY must love her.

Yes, this is the "whoville hair" of which I speak. Why do I have my hand over my face? It serves several purposes. First, these pictures really were taken right after I crawled out of bed (and yes the timestamps are most likely correct). It's summer and I have few deadlines or timeclocks to meet. I really am NOT a morning person regardless of what time I drag my blessed assurance out of the land of dreams and drool. Having just crawled away from my husband's sleep apnea laden snores, I am not pretty either. So for YOUR protection, I spare you the horror that is me in the morning - blotchy, puffy, and scowling. Plus I'm not awake enough to tolerate self induced camera flash. But being the professional that I am, I encounter the stuff to post in blogs at all hours just for you. The amazing thing is that I find this stuff without the first drop of coffee even. Now how's that for being on-the-job for you?