Marble Poundcake Mullet, Part 2

If you are new to the blog, I'm sorry.  My mom thinks I'm funny, but she's a functioning alcoholic, and they think everyone is funny.  I'm kidding.  My mom is a meth addict.

I am a low maintenance person.  I don't wear much makeup, or shower every day, or even shave my legs during the coldest winter months.  This makes me sound more "clinically depressed" than "low-maintenance", but really, I would rather get another chapter read in my book than apply makeup.  And I'm married, so the farce is over.

The one thing I do get a little uptight about is my hair.  I'm not even talking about MY maintenance of my hair, I'm talking about the quarterly upkeep of my hair by a paid professional.  Left to my own devices, I would just put my salt and pepper mane into a clip or a ponytail and be done with it, but I have children to embarrass with my need to look younger and listen to their music and throw gang signs at them when I kick them to the curb at middle school in the mornings.

So spring, summer, fall and winter, I fork over about $150 for the ability to convince myself that I look less gray and more tragically hip.  I also have my Frida Kahlo lip waxed so I can walk around town with a swollen pink mustache, convenient when I want people to avoid me.  As I explained in too much detail yesterday, my hair ended up with drastic layers cut into it, with the end result looking like a Marble Poundcake Mullet.  Like Billy Ray Cyrus and Rachel Green from Friends had a baby they didn't like very much.  But how do you tell the sweet gal who just did this to you that you don't like it?  What exactly is she going to to about it?  The hair is gone.  You just think, "It will grow back, and I can wear a wig or some Jessica Simpson hair extensions."

But when Oldest Daughter got home, she called me Two Tone, and that is when I lost my shit.  I called my stylist and asked for a mulligan.  She told me to come in today at 11:30 a.m.

Tell me you see it -

Blondie on the top, Brownie on the bottom.

(And I notice the shower curtain rod is getting rusty.)

It was awkward, and she couldn't have been sweeter about it.  I said, "Hi!  I bet you think I'm completely psychotic!" and she gave me a nice smile and patted my arm and said "Come on back".  We went to the back room where the women are incrementally blonder or redder or caramel-er and everyone talks smack about Dancing With the Stars or That Asshole Jesse James/Tiger Woods or the Hawaii/Florida/Scottsdale/Mexico Trip from which they've just returned.  I read a book called "Stuff White People Like" and thought about my upcoming vacation extravaganza to Dayton, Ohio.

As she foiled my hair, I read my book.  I realized I'd read about 50 pages and she wasn't done.  I started to panic.  Was she going to turn me into Pam Anderson just to make a point?  How angry was she?  How much Reynolds Wrap was going to die because I have an aversion to two-tone hair, Bump-its, and Jersey Shore?  I tried to start talking in apologetic tones about what a pain in the ass I am, and she shushed me, smiling.  Oh no.  This was going to be bad.

As she was rinsing my hair out, I thought, "What do I pay for this?  I've taken up her time.  Do I compensate?  Was it her mistake in the first place, or mine for not saying anything yesterday when I was here?  Was it my turn to drive for orchestra this morning?  I have to get out of here."

I said "Don't blow me out, okay?" and then thought it sounded sexual, and while I don't actually want her to blow me, I don't want her to think I'm rejecting her color AND her sexuality.  "Um, I mean, I don't need it dried, you don't need to style it..." and she looked at me incredulously.  "Really?  You just want to walk out with it wet?"  I didn't want to be a bigger pain than I already was, and if the color was off this time, too bad for me, because another roll of Reynolds Wrap and chemicals would make my hair fall out.  "Yep!  I brought a clip!"  I'm sure she thinks I'm the biggest soccer mom in history - I'm leaving this nice salon and spa, and insisting on walking out with wet hair in a clip.  Fashion Don't.

All day in my fancy clip -

zig zag fuzzy hair, but it's uniform in color!

Vogue Hands automatically give me style.

She fixed my hair, but not my mental issues.  She just smiled and said, "You're done, you can go!" and I said, "Can I at least pay you for a Drive By?" which is actually called a Drive Thru and means you get your color touched up for a low price in between appointments, but she probably really thought I wanted her to drive past my house and shoot at me because I was so clearly freaking out about making her re-do my do.  And I had made it apparent I wasn't one of her "Easy" or "Stable" or "Coherent" clients.  "Nope!  You're fine!"  I left her a $20 tip and the sense she should make herself look booked before my next appointment in July.

But I still have my hot clip, and my mojo.

And you can't take that away from me.

I am also wearing my Jen Lancaster pearls - not an appropriate topic for Whoreticulture Friday, so I'll address which authors I will be stalking next week in Monday's post, and tell you about the THREE e-mails I've received from The Governor of Jennsylvania in the past few months! 

Thanks for your support during this difficult time.  And Mom, I'm sorry.  You are not a meth addict either.  I'm an entertainer, not an historian.

The Achy Breaky Two Tone Snooky Do

CONFESSION:  I am a minivan driving, school volunteering, Starbucks drinking, child extra-curricular event attending mother of three over forty.  WTF happened?

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?"

ME:  "Yes."

YD:  "Oh."

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?

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.