Thursday, April 17, 2008

Hairy situation

I am having hair issues. Not merely bad hair days (which have been, like, every day for the last six months), but troubles with whiskers popping out of my chin (ew!) and then yesterday I realized that the last time I shaved, I did both legs, and my right armpit.

The left one, however, apparently was either not with me that day, or had a no-cut order posted to protect the forest.

I know. You could have gone your whole entire lives without that particular insight into my personal grooming habits. Although in case you were wondering where my kids get their ADD tendencies? Yeah. That about says it all, huh?

ANYWAY. I have been considering getting a hair cut.

Actually, I’ve been considering putting out a contract to have my hair whacked. Right now, it comes to just below my shoulders and looks like holy hell most of the time. This is because I have all these grand and glorious intentions around my personal appearance that simply never materialize.

Every few years, I decide that I am tired of looking tired and trashy all the time, so – and this time, I really mean it! – I am going to make myself over.

I usually buy girl-clothes and dig my ‘cute’ shoes out of the storage shed and pick up $50 in makeup and rush into Supercuts clutching photos of trim, attractive 20-somethings with cute little pixie cuts and say, “Yes! Just like this!”

I usually love the cut for a few weeks and then hate it and let it grow out again, cussing all the way as it goes from ‘perky’ to ‘shaggy’ to ‘seriously, you should have somebody look at that’ to ‘heh heh heh…lookit that, it’s like she’s got a goat on her head or something!’ to ‘almost manageable’ and then finally, glory hallelujah, I can put it in a ponytail again.

The makeup eventually goes in the trash and the dresses into the back of the closet for a while until one day I say, “Why am I wasting all that space with those things? I never wear them!” and send them back to Goodwill.

I remember this cycle for a year or two, and then I look at myself in the mirror one morning and think, God. I look all…tired…and kind of trashy…you know what? I think I need A MAKEOVER!

This is because I never – and I mean never – learn.

This morning was going to be Hair Cut Day. I had picked up a Short Styles magazine and selected a few styles that showed the general idea. My favorite Supercut stylist had returned from her vacation. I was ready.

My hair didn’t help its case this morning. Oh no, it did not. First, it felt sticky. Then when I washed it, it went all bushy. Then it tangled itself all up and hurt like the dickens when I went to brush it. When put into a ponytail, it began pulling on my scalp and giving me a headache. @*^&@.

I dug into my drawer and found my box of hairpins. It took forty-eleven of them, a bit of water, and almost ten minutes (which is, for me, a helluva long time to be futzing with my appearance in the morning) but! Clean living prevailed, and my hair was caged into a bun-like thing.

Up off my neck, not looking stupid, perhaps even looking (dare I say it) like I had given a cuss that morning.

Which was appropriate, because I had given a cuss. Many of them, in fact.

I then descended into my usual morning routine of slamming food around, yelling at the children and trying to remember what it was that I was forgetting (oh yeah, to speak ‘calm, supportive words’ encourage them to do well on that stupid State testing thing today).

And then I came home, flopped onto the sofa and tried not to fall asleep. Not only am I still recovering from a weekend in Disneyland with two ten year olds (I was alone with them, and we arrived home at midnight – on a school night) (“pooped” does not begin to cover it), but I’ve been doing battle with a cold all week (it showed up Saturday morning as we were getting ready to go into the park: Gee, why is my throat so sore this morning? Did I not brush my teeth last night? {hack hack} Oh…that was NOT a cough…).

Of course, the minute I sat down, Captain Adventure came over to jump on me. He settled into my lap and put his arms around my neck to begin his morning monolog – a listing of not only what HAS happened, but what WILL happen and what he’d LIKE to have happen.

“Hi, mommy! Boo Bug go school today? Danger Mouse go school today? Eldest go school today? Oh! Captain Adventure go school today? Nooooooo…ee go later today. I haf…EGGS today…I haf…MILK today…I haf…mmmm…I haf park today! I haf…river today! I haf…cupcake today…I haf…”

The abrupt silence startled me into cracking an eye open to see what the problem was. He was staring at me with the strangest expression on his face. I could feel his little hands patting the back of my neck.

“Uh oh!” he said, then got up to look at the back of my head. “Uh oh! Mommy? Mommy! Where hair go?! Mommy? MOMMY! WHERE HAIR GO?!?!”

“I put it up, baby,” I said. “See? It’s in a bun today.”

His eyes were burning coals in his head.

“Where hair go, mommy?” he asked in a broken little voice. “Mommy…where hair go?”

“Honey…it’s just up, baby. Look. See? See the little pins?” I pulled a little hair out to show him.

“No, mommy,” he said. “Put hair down.”

“I want it up today,” I replied testily.





Stalemate. He was angry. I was getting there. Then he started to cry, which, I mean really – low blow!

“Hair down, mommy…”

Oh, for the love of…

I took the pins out and shook the dreadful mane down on my shoulders. It hung damp and lifeless on my neck. Hot. Sticky. Ugh.

I need a makeover…

He stood up and pressed his face into it. Snuggled down against my shoulder, wrapping his fingers in it, petting it.

He has always done that, since he was mere months old. For months, it was part of his going to sleep ritual, stroking my hair as his breathing grew steady and noisy in my ear.

“There ‘ee go,” he cooed happily. “There mommy hair. Mommy? I haf mommy hair today!”

Oh, gag me. And if you think, kid, that I am going to leave it all messy like that just because you like it…no. I’m getting a haircut today, and That. Is. FINAL.

I am a strong-minded, independent woman, dammit. I do what I want to do, when I want to do it! ROAR!

So I marched into Supercuts. I waited for my stylist. I sat down in her chair.

“So, what are we doing today?” she asked. I took a deep breath, and let it out.

“Just even it up for me and nip those bangs out of my eyes, OK?”


Tola said...

he is truly one of God's angels.

Yarnhog said...

Must. Not. Cut. Hair.

Make a note. Cause it sounds like that would break his little heart.

And, hey--you can always cut it when he goes off to college. :)

(Actually, I might advise against that. I cut mine a few months ago, and when my 22 year old stepson came back from college and saw it, he was almost distraught. He told me I cut off a piece of his childhood. Hmph.)

Olga said...

When I finally shaved my legs I told everyone that I took off my winter hair socks in honor of spring. no one laughed.

Christi said...

If you come up with a solution to the Hair, please let me know. I let my sister talk me into new style last fall, and I've cursed it daily ever since. I was tired of braiding it every day, so I was persuaded to have layers.

Now, I can't braid it at all, so I just put it in a clip every day. Same rut, different view. At least with a braid, you could tell that I did take the time to brush it. With the clip and a breeze, I look like I just got out of bed, no matter what I do to it.

Anonymous said...

Aaawwwwww.....that is so cute! My boys used to cry every time I cut my hair, but I cut it anyway. You're a much nicer mommy than I am.

Amy Lane said...

Oh gods...that was so cute...and to reinforce that whole thing--I did cut my hair short when T was about five. After a week of admiring my haircut he got very weepy.

"Mom...I want your mommy hair back."

Kris said...

How sweet. But just think, a year ago you would have whacked it off and he would have been inconsolable with no apparent reason why. Now he can tell you what he thinks! How awesome is that?

Lydee said...

good story! poor hair!

tina said...

OK Tama - at least he didn't say *mom, if you ever cut your hair you must promise to weave me mittens out of it*
He grudgingly acknowledges that I may (now) donate to Locks of Love, but even at 18, still mentions his lack of mom-hair mittens.

Oh- and for the legs and pits - WAX is your friend, and then you only have to even consider it once a month (ish)

peace & hair

Science PhD Mom said...

I get the "don't cut your hair!" comments from DH. He likes it long enough for me to put it up, and gives me the calf-eyed looks when I mention it is getting too long. My DS is not old enough to voice his disapproval, but he likes playing with my hair. I fully expect to hear "don't cut your hair" from him, too, in about a year or so. Like father, like son! You are so not alone.

Patty said...

Awww, that was so cute it brought tears to my eyes. "Mommy hair"! You're beautiful, long hair (armpit too!) and all!