It’s finally time to give up my rock n roll hair salon.

As much as I love my stylist, how he spends two hours expertly trimming and thinning my unruly locks, and working in quirky, edgy little touches, I just can’t do it anymore.

Even though my stylist will never let me look like the suburban mom I am, sitting in the electric chair-inspired chair staring at a stained glass painting of a man slave performing fellatio sure makes me feel like one.

(My mom once asked if she could go to my salon. Um, no. Never.)

As my twin pregnancy progresses, I can only imagine dragging my supersized self way downtown in the freezing cold and trying to hoist myself in and out of the S&M-themed hair washing station.

And after the twins come? I’ve already had the unpleasant experience of pumping in their CBGB’s-inspired bathroom (measuring approximately 1 foot by 1 foot), with walls plastered with Toilet Boys, Television, and The Clash concert posters, no sink (but feel free to sanitize with the warehouse club alcohol sanitizer, which is ALWAYS empty), and a door that almost closes all the way.

Don’t get me wrong — the tattoo-covered staff is unfailing sweet. On their breaks they read things like Dante’s Inferno while smoking cigarettes and sipping tea. And they pretended not to be horrified that time I hogged their only bathroom to pump (“I’m sure weirder things have happened in there,” one of them said.)

But alas, its time for a grown up salon. A place I can get to via the comfort of my own car. A place where they offer coffee and cold water in glasses, mints in their spacious bathroom, and refill your parking meter in the off chance you stay longer than an hour.

I’ll miss the amazing haircuts, the rock scene gossip, and that long lost urge I get to hang out all day in smoky bars when vintage Stones start blasting over the speakers.

But it’s time, folks. For better or worse, it’s time.