To the untrained eye, it looked like I had an easy day ahead. It was a Saturday morning and I was out on good behavior. (Translation: my husband was watching the kids so I could get a haircut.)
“Haircut” sounds innocent so it’s important that you understand why these periodic groomings are less about personal beautification and more for public service. I have that kind of hair that elicits questions like, “Were you in an accident?” And, regardless of the price of the haircut (and I’m always billed by the hour), my hair only does one style--the Bride of Frankenstein. Thus considering the discomfort and humiliation that comes with getting my hair done, I’d rather get my pampering at the gynecologist.
But that day I had a new stylist not yet hardened by the reality of unmanageable hair. She worked feverishly cutting, blowing, ironing and spraying. And then she spun the chair around for me to behold her work and for the first time in my life my hair didn’t look nervous and confused.
I knew my hairy godmother had waved her magic straightening wand and at the stroke of midnight (or when I attempted to style it myself) I would once again look like I had been electrocuted. This hair was too pretty to waste on cleaning the shower, so I decided to run some errands on the way home.
I visited the dry cleaners, the grocery store, a gift shop . . . every possible stop except the gas station (because with all the hair products I was highly flammable). But instead of the usual smiles and hellos, clerks and customers were staring and children were pointing. I figured they were surprised to see me on a humid day when my mane wasn’t eclipsing the sun. But when I got back in my car and glanced into my rearview mirror, I discovered why being near-sighted and brunette is a lethal combination.
Apparently during my Extreme Hair Makeover, I had grown a full beard. Yes, my stylist had accidentally polyurethaned to my face the two inch hair remnants that usually end up on the salon floor. And I’m not talking about a light dusting. I had enough unusual facial hair to be one of the Backstreet Boys.
It’s during these adventures in Humiliation Land that you have a few choices: laugh, cry, or move far, far away. As I sat alone in my mom-mobile, I laughed until I was doubled over and tickling my knees with the hair on my chinny-chin-chin.
Blackbeard the Mommy returned home to Dad worn out from six games of Pretty Pretty Princess and a Fisher Price doctor’s exam that would horrify the medical community. I was greated with "thank God you're home" and a chorus of "mommy!" Hubs and cherubs told me that my hair looked beautiful and my face looked, ummm, fluffy. Although “post-animal shelter” was not the look I was going for, I was grateful to be home surrounded by people who love me--whiskers and all.
Wearing a Baseball Cap,