So… this is a post about mah hair.
Here’s the deal. I am now a matronly and responsible age of forty-notgonnatellyous. It’s wonderful, aging. There’s nothing better. Think of the perks:
LIST OF GOOD THINGS ABOUT AGING:
Workers at McDonalds that call me “ma’am.”
Discussing the Brady Bunch with my students and continuing for a whole five convoluted minutes before I realize they are referring to the STUPID REMAKE.
My children who will always think CGI is an acceptable replacement for actual, um, film.
When I pick a pencil up off the ground I have to make a corresponding noise.
Flyers that come in the mail addressed to “Resident” about the AARP. (I discovered later the mailer was for our next door neighbor, but I didn’t realize this right away because I didn’t have my glasses on so I couldn’t really see the mailer address and oh snap this just makes it all worse.)
You see, I think I am 18. In my head, I am 18. REALLY, I am.
But alas, the mirror has a few things to say about this.
Me: Good heavens. You again.
Mirror: Try some moisturizer. The bottle says, “Defies AGING!” Hah hah hah.
Me: Sarcasm is not appreciated this early.
Mirror: What? Just keeping it real. Really, you look great. FOR YOUR AGE. Hah hah hah.
Me: I’m 18.
Mirror: Wow. So, you had your firstborn at 13 huh? Wow. There’s an MTV show about that… You should audition. Hah hah hah.
Me: I’m going to go put on my glasses and then we’ll talk. And some moisturizer.
Mirror: (Calling after me) What?? You don’t like my jokes? I got some new material we’ll try out next time about how gravity works. Don’t worry, I’ll be here ALL LIFETIME. Hah hah hah…
But I digress.
My hair and I have been in an endless battle since I was in my twenties. It’s my dad’s fault. His hair genes told my hair genes to turn grey around 20 years old and I did what any normal, vain, twenty year old would do – I started throwing color on my hairs pronto. And as time passed… Well, I started to just get sick of it. Every time my greys would come back in, I started to think I was looking more and more like this:
Or, worse, this:
And then every picture I ever took I kinda wished for the little helper called SOFT FOCUS like this:
So much so that my last selfie looked like this:
BUT I DIGRESS.
So, I got my hair did. Chopped and de-colored. Evidently, pulling color OUT of hair that has had color put IN it for 20 some years is a bit of a “project.” (My sweet hair stylist friend actually called my appointment a “project.” Like, cleaning up after the Exxon, or organizing my sons’ room.) When I first went in for the appointment my dear friend (the hair wizard) kind of just stood over me whispering back and forth with her partner, looking at my head with consternation. “This… I am not promising anything. This might work… But whatever happens, just remember, we can always fix it. Maybe.”
I must admit there were some moments (about three hours in) where I was wondering if I might be leaving the salon looking like this:
And then, lo and behold, the magician did THIS:
I like it. It is a big change and much more red than I was ready for, but we are on “Stage One” of the “project.” Eventually, I will be back to a nice soft brown. For now, I kinda feel like this:
Sensible hair. Practical hair. Mom hair. No more. Momsie Rabbit’s not bad… I’m just drawn that way.
*Earlier I asked the hubs if I was Jessica Rabbit-ish and he kinda cocked his head and responded (far too quickly) –
“Maybe more like this?”