Welcome to middle age
Posted on November 2, 2007
Filed Under kids, parenting, suburban joys, bitching and moaning, Anxiety |
Yesterday I got my hair cut. Okay, shorn is a more apt descriptive. I didn’t mean for the stylist to get so aggressive. I may have exaggerated when I declared that I was thinking of taking three inches off the bottom. I had had too much Pumpkin Decaf Latte. He should have known I was giddy with the prospect of a whole afternoon spent lazing about in the padded chair that goes up and down with the pump of a foot while nursing a specialty coffee confection and reading trashy magazine about Jake Gyllenhaal and Reese Witherspoon’s budding romance. He should have known that three inches really means two and, having been a hair dresser for several hundred years, he certainly should know that three inches never ever means four. 
One hairdressing mishap later and I am officially sporting the Mom-do, a chin length bob with lots of layers requiring forty minutes of blow drying and moussing and spraying and swearing and re-wetting and blow drying all over again, each morning before leaving the house. I hate high maintenance hair. I hate that I was looking for edgy and urban and instead I look like Martha Stewart. I hate that when I volunteered in G’s classroom this morning, I saw at least ten other mothers roaming the grade school hallways with the same matronly coif, all highlights and hairspray and a carefully executed under-flip. With my haircut, I have aged ten years.
And to add to my humiliation, O has issued his own declaration of disapproval. After sprinting off the bus and throwing his backpack at the front door, casting aside his shoes and socks in the hallway, demanding a snack and moaning and wailing about his homework, he finally turned to me, eyes grown wide with amazement and said, “Where is your hair? Oh. My. God. You look like a boy.” To which I replied, with great effort at appearing nonchalant and unmoved by his condemnation, “It’s only a little haircut. No big deal.” And he said with all the pity an eight year old can muster, “I hate to see you looking like this, Mom. But it’ll grow back, right?”
I’m considering a wiffle.
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