Last thing I remember was getting initiated into a sorority in college and going to a LOT of parties, and then I vaguely remember dating this guy because he seemed like someone who would really piss off my dad, and then SURPRISE! the joke's on me because I married him and bore three of his children and here we are in this house that doesn't clean itself with that minivan parked at the curb. Whoosh! Take cover, Pa, it's a tornado in the trailer park!
It's no secret that I want to believe I am still in my late twenties. I may not be able to control my varicose veins or my batwings or the family gobbler forming under my chin or the Three-Baby Pooch that rests on the top of my low-slung jeans, but I can control my fashion sense, my taste in music, and my hair.
I confess, I am still stuck in the Gap. My uniform is Gap jeans or khakis with various versions of the Gap t-shirts or western shirts. These clothes say to me, "Hey, you could pass for a teaching assistant in college! You could be in a bar! There's no way you drive a minivan!" when what they are really saying is, "Guess the make and model of my minivan?" Therefore, I have to occasionally mix it up with a funky thrift store vintage shirt or something from Anthopologie. I guess what I'm trying to say is my wardrobe is confusing. Like my personality.
I listen to college bands. I have always had an insanely emotional attachment to music, and there is nothing better than finding the perfect song to express what you're feeling. It's like someone else 'gets it'. It never hurts if the lead singer or guitarist is cute. I love me a good guitarist crush.
Flavor of the month:
Damian Kulash, from Ok Go.
He's 35, so it isn't TOTALLY cougar.
I plan on being one of those old women who wear their hair long forever. It's all I got. I will let it gracefully go gray, after I am well past 55. For now, those suckers are getting covered. I'm a pretty low maintenance gal, but I do spend a chunk of change every 12 weeks or so getting fake color put in my hair. I want to look sassy, not brassy. I know it doesn't look like I was born with it, I'm not THAT delusional, but I want it to look like I care about something when I have the jelly donut stains down the front of my Gap t-shirt.
Today, I went in for the quarterly transformation, and my stylist (who is a lovely, perky, cute blonde twenty something who is going to Mexico next week for a wedding as a single, unattached fun-loving home-owning person...what was I talking about?) talked me into doing some layers. SOME layers. I love her dearly, but two hours later I left with Billy Ray Cyrus on my head - the light side AND the dark side. And no one wants to see the dark side of Billy Ray. When I saw her cutting some big chunks out of my previously unlayered hair, I had visions of Rachel Green from Friends, and some quick math told me that The Rachel hadn't been in style for at least 10 years.
When they spin that chair around and you face the music, if you don't like it, do YOU say something? I've been seeing this girl for over three years, I don't want to hurt her feelings. And there is a part of me saying, "They can't glue it back on, honey, just pick up your dignity, pay the bill and get the hell out." I went home and tried to flatten out the Rachel bump and reduce the look of the Mom Mullet, but to no avail. Then I looked in the mirror at the back of my head. Oh no. The dark side was darker than I thought. Luke Skywalker had the crown and Darth Vader had the ends and they were fighting for dominance somewhere in the middle.
Vader layer: "Yes! Yes, give in to your hate of the hair color! The force is strong with this color! Come to the dark side!"
Luke layer: "No! I will never give in to you! I want to go to the light! I'm looking into the light!"
Creepy old lady from Poltergeist: "Don't look into the light! Stay away from the light!"
Almond Joy commercial: "Sometimes you feel like a nut..."
After looking at my hair too long, I decided I was being ridiculous. I worked all afternoon, but the whole time, Billy Ray Cyrus was singing in my head. Ross was trying to date me, and then break up with me. Darth and Luke were fighting, with the Emperor cackling in the background. Finally, the kids got home from school.
YD: "Mommy, did you get your hair cut?"
Son: "I like it Mother. Can I have chips and salsa?"
OD: "Um, it's like...two tone. Did you get it colored in two shades?"
My middle schooler called me Two Tone. Oh my God, I had to get back to blonde unattached home-owner before she left for Mexico, because what if she never came back and only she knows the chemical formula for the color in the Luke Skywalker side of my hair?
My hair is now officially bipolar.
And a pseudo-mullet.
I called extremely cute stylist and told her I was worried about the Dark Side. She told me that it's always hard to see the highlights in the lower layers. We sat in silence for a moment, and then I got some Mom Balls and said, "Yeah, well I need the layers to match." I am scheduled to go in at 11:30 today, and now I'm even more afraid. What if I've offended her? What if, to make her point, she goes over the top and makes me really light on the bottom layer? What if it actually tips the balance so the top half of my hair is Joan Jett and the bottom half is Blondie? Will I love Rock n' Roll, or will I be in Rapture?
What have I done?