My Teenager just returned from a 3.5 week vacation in Northern California with my sister and mom. After we said our happy hello’s at the airport, she immediately noticed my new ‘do.
Teenager: “Oh, I like your haircut. You look like a soccer mom.”
Was that supposed to be a compliment? After all, my son does play soccer so technically I have been a “soccer mom” for at least 5 years. However, I almost would have preferred she associate me with any of these women who have famously rocked the short ‘do rather than what I perceive to be a modern day label for “frumpy housewife”, which is a title I banished many years ago when I went through a divorce and joined a gym.
Last night I actually made an effort to look presentable, knowing that I had to make the long trek through the United Airlines terminal to pick up my Teenager at the gate. Beforehand I managed to squeeze in a 4 mile run as the sun was setting, after dropping off the younger two kiddos at their dad’s house. I could have easily thrown on my usual attire when I’m in a hurry: yoga pants, tank top, baseball cap, and a sweat shirt in case I get cold. But I decided my new haircut deserved a proper public debut. I managed a quick shower without fudging my makeup, then threw on a pair of skinny jeans and a cute Anne Taylor top. I even wore dangly earrings, which to me is a definite must when sporting a new haircut.
I should clarify that there is nothing wrong with being a soccer mom or even resembling one. It’s just that I hoped to elicit a different response after chopping off my hair for the second time. “Cute” or even a stare in wonderment would have sufficed. So an hour later when we were finally home, I had to ask my Teenager if she really thought I looked like a “soccer mom”, hoping that she might shed some light on exactly what she meant by that, assuming it’s a term that is used by her group of friends to describe all of us moms.
Her response: “Well, no. Because you have tattoos.”
Okay, I’ll take that answer.
I seriously need a haircut. Which would not be an issue if I would just make an appointment at my girlfriend’s salon. But I fell to temptation a few weeks ago and took scissors to hair, carving out a completely new style for myself. Quite honestly, it turned out fabulous. A huge improvement from the giant overgrowth that had taken place since my last salon visit. However, hair grows, and mine grows a little too well. Add the summer’s humidity and I’ve lost control of it. I refuse to resort to bobby pins and gobs of pomade to keep it under control. Something has to be done.
But oh the messes it creates. I will be forever feeling the pin pricks caused by random bits of cut hair caught in my clothing. That’s when I wonder if I should just make an appointment and let an expert deal with it. But then, my hair grows and the process must be repeated, over and over again. I can’t help but think how many Lululemon racerback tanks I could have purchased if my hair would just behave itself without so much intervention.
When I have a random moment to just sit and do nothing, I plan out this DIY project. The clippers will do this, the scissors will do that, and the thinning sheers (which are the most ingenious invention ever, for those of us who cut our own hair) will do the finishing touches. I have to keep my eye on the prize, the final moment of “Voila!” when it’s all done. And then I must relish that moment for a minute or two before reality sets in and I see the hair all over the place. Everything must be vacuumed.
Of course, as I have mentioned twice already, I could just as easily make an appointment and let someone else deal with the clean-up process. But once you commit to cutting your own hair, there is no turning back. I am sure my handiwork leaves much to be desired, especially the random areas on the back of my head that I can’t exactly see while cutting away. My girlfriend would never criticize my technique because she is that sweet and wonderful. So the issue really is that I’m impatient and I really would like my haircut right now at this very moment.
And I just remembered that I bought some hair dye a couple of weeks ago, in a slight shade of red. As I break out all the tools of the trade to beautify my coif once again, the bathroom may start to resemble a mini beauty salon… or perhaps, more accurately, a murder scene.