A Day in the Dad

Today was my quarterly cut, covering of the grays, waxing off of the Freda Kahlo, and generally begging of my long-suffering stylist to make me look younger.  Unfortunately, they have not perfected the waxing off of the Chin Gobbler or Coloring of the Eye Bags yet, so I walked out looking better groomed, but still 41.

Dang.


We are showing the house at 5 p.m., and I just realized that due to some bad planning, I am now going to show the house with my pink Hitler mustache from the waxing.  Neat.  Much better than the showing last night, when I was feeling a little gassy.  It is 4:32, so I'm in my freakout mode and I'm realizing I didn't blog today, so I'm posting an awesome video.  This is a clip a friend sent to me, because she thought CH would appreciate it.  I will tell you that the first guy?  With the "gas station glasses"?  I might have thought he actually IS CH for a moment.  Hilarious.  See you Friday!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 33

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.


Today's topic: Summer Hair Management.

I'm sort of a slacker mom.  Granted, we've been pretty busy so far this summer, but I took my kids to the pool for the first time last week, and their summer break is halfway over.  The kids have been to the pool - they've been in swimming lessons, been with friends, and went with our local park board.  But I, the Wife, had not stripped down for the community at the local pool until last week.  Preparing for my pool trip made me realize what a hairy woman I have become in my old age.

 Actual photo of me at pool, playing water guns with kids.

Every woman deals with this issue on some level.  Honestly, I don't shave my legs much between Thanksgiving and St. Patrick's Day.  Why bother?  Current Husband isn't going to turn me down because he doesn't have a girlfriend yet and I am his only option.  Besides, it keeps me warm.  But in the summer?  You don't want even one little unsightly hair poking out of anything.  Let me break it down for you from head to toe:

 Me at PTA event in May.

I think the flower in my hair is a nice touch.

Eyebrows

I am a total Freda Kahlo.  If I don't pluck my eyebrows every few hours, I will grow a Bridge to Terabithia between my eyes.  Now that I am over 40, some of those hairs are gray or white, and much harder for me to see with my reduced vision.  I always seem to notice those little buggers about 10 minutes before I'm ready to walk out the door.  Last night is a great example - CH and I attended a John Deere Classic Golf Tournament dinner with some friends.  Nice event.  I wore a dress.  But as we were leaving home, I noticed a few stray eyebrow hairs, and I had to pluck them.  HAD. TO. And of course, I got huge welts on my eyebrows.  I told people I was hit in the forehead by a stray golf ball on my way into the event.  Kenny Parry got me an ice pack.  Zach Johnson suggested cucumber slices from the salad.

 Kids!  Let's get some ice cream with Higgins!

Mustache

There is nothing hotter than a mother of three with a fluffy 'stache.  Again, over 40, darker hair, more prevalent.  What is that all about?  I didn't have a mustache in college!  I had very little unsightly hair before I was 25.  It's like God WANTS you to get pregnant before you're ready.  I get that bad boy waxed every few months, but I have to be sure not to schedule anything in the afternoon, because when the Tom Selleck is yanked off my face, I get a huge pink Hitler for a few hours afterward.  They even douse me with witch hazel or vodka or something, and yet, I sport the FemiNazi until dinner.

 It appears that Alec Baldwin and I 

share more than calling our 

children names on their voicemail...

Nipples

Oh, you heard me.  I said it.  Nipples.  And I know lots of women who get stray hairs around their nipples, so don't EVEN try to tell me this is shocking in any way.  Fortunately, my nipular hair level has not reached shaving level, because I never want to say to CH, "Hey, wanna get it on?  I just shaved my tits."  I'm a plucker.  A mother plucker.  So hot.  Speaking of hot...

I'll pluck yours, Rob, if you pluck mine...

Stomach

Yep, here too.  I've heard this called the Dirt Trail, but Urban Dictionary, the go-to resource for Whoreticulture Friday, says that is actually a disgusting fecal issue, so don't take my word for it.  I had a friend in high school who was plucking dark hairs from her navel to her dealio, and I thought, "Wow, that sucks".  Now I think of her as a pluck those stray bad boys, because she has a terrific job and probably gets hers professionally done while sipping a Mojito and reading "W".  Touche.

Bikini Line - really, you don't want an image here.

I am not brave enough to wax yet, so I am a shaver, despite warnings from my OB-GYN friend from high school who says to be careful with the razor because she has put stitches in a LABIA (cringe) from someone doing their own bushwhacking.  And let me tell you, it is hard to be thorough for swimsuit wearing.  I was very conscious about leg placement at the pool, because honestly, I am getting old and not as bendy as I used to be, and I was a little concerned about being surrounded by hairless teens in small bikinis.  Enough said.  As for Brazilians, let me just tell you that my pain tolerance level is quite low, and until they are giving epidurals with Brazilians, I will not carry a passport.  No travel to Brazil for me.

I look just like this, 

if you add three pregnancies, 

loads of spider veins, 

hairy German bloodlines,

and 15 boxes of girl scout cookies.

 

Legs

I always shave my legs in the summer, but I notice there are spots on my knees that I miss, which is weird.  I also occasionally notice longer dark strays on the back of my thighs a few inches above my knees, like there are a couple of hairs that seem to duck whenever I am shaving, and suddenly they are an inch long and showing off my German heritage.  I guess I'm married, so who gives a shit, but really, it's more about the principle.  I used to have great legs, it was my favorite feature, but then I had kids.  Some families pass down sterling silver or china.  Some families pass down stock or ownership in companies.  My family passes down the chin gobbler, Alzheimer's, and varicose veins.  Thanks, ancestors!  Now I have a map of Toledo on the backs of my legs, so really?  The hair can stay.

I get my pedicures done in Middle Earth with Frodo.

Toes

My big toes have hair on them too.  I also had five wisdom teeth, so it's like my people really haven't evolved that much from the apes.  I've been known to shave my big toes.  It's like my razor sees me coming and goes, "Oh Christ, really?"  I think I just need an all-over waxing.  Wax on, wax off.  Just like the Karate Kid.  But hairier.  And sadder.

I'm sorry to burst your bubble people, but I'm not too sexy for my shirt.  But I may be a little too hairy for it.  I know.  Current Husband is one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Keep on waxing and have a great weekend!  St. Joseph story to come, he couldn't fit into Whoreticulture Friday, Sunday seems a little more appropriate.

 

Laura is to braids as I am to Aniston

Last Friday I got a haircut.

When I say "haircut," I mean the chemical painting of my hair to cover up the 'Old Hag Salt and Pepper' color I naturally sport, cutting of the hair, and then waxing of my Freda Kahlo moustachio. After I paid my (gasp!!!) $130 bill for said haircut and procedures (please God do not let CH read this post), I started thinking that might be more than Laura paid for hair maintenance in HER ENTIRE LIFE. I will be embracing my future styling, heretofore called "The Half Pint."

Anyone who watched "Little House on the Prairie" and saw Melissa Gilbert bounding down the grassy hill knows Laura was a braid girl. Except for Little House in the Big Woods, Laura is always illustrated with her hair in braids, either down her back or done up in a bun-type do. I have serious doubts as to whether Laura ever had her hair colored. It was probably highlighted from the sun, as she sometimes disobeyed Ma and ran on the prairie without her bonnet, but never in an orangey Sun-In sort of way (see Julie in Junior High).

I feel confident it's equally likely Laura Ingalls Wilder never had wax applied to her body, be it the upper lip, brow or netherparts, unless it was after the hogs were butchered and some tallow for candles spilled. (And I dearly hope that was not on her netherparts.)

Basically I'm thinking Laura would strongly disapprove of my entire haircare regimen.

Since my appointments are so expensive (somehow I am shocked at the total every single time, and check the receipt for mistakes), I only get my hair done every 12 weeks or so. It's important to me to let my roots grow out 3 inches and to get a nice downy black fluff above my lip so that when I come home from the appointment I look so stunningly improved that if CH should happen to see the amount it took to get me that way he might ignore it.

As the appointments are three months apart, I forget them. Organized mothers have their appointments written down in a handy calendar they keep in their purse. I'm not one of those mothers; I write things down on scraps of paper I keep in my purse, later used to catch gum from my children. The salon calls me the night before my appointment to remind me, and again, I am always surprised. This is the life of the disorganized wife and mother - always full of surprises!

My stylist is a lovely unmarried young person who is blonde, thin, childless and owns her own home. Because of this, she has no traces of bitterness or stress about her, and always seems cheerfully optimistic that she can help when I ask to look like Natalie Portman or Jennifer Garner. I whip out a book to read and she goes to work.

Last week, something went very wrong.

Instead of my usual lighter color, trim, and lip wax, I ended up with darker hair, a Jennifer Aniston cut circa Rachel, and a very abnormally swollen, pink upper lip. I looked like I was unshowered, ready to break up with Ross (again), and resembling Hitler in pink. I was a real-life dirty Rachel Green FemiNazi.

I don't know what happened on that fateful day. Was Blonde Girl distracted? Angry? High? Taking out her secret sado-masochistic streak on me? I'll never know. When she twirled me around to look at my hair, I stifled a gasp and said, "It looks great, thanks!" because I am that much of a gutless wonder. And then I gave her a 20% tip (included in the $130 total for those keeping track) and made my appointment for January, which I promptly forgot.

Next time, I'm going for braids. Welcome to The Half Pint.