Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Does the mom hair cut lead to mom jeans?

This morning while I was getting ready for work, running late as usual, and had absolutely nothing important to think of, I stared at myself in the mirror and made the very life changing decision to get hair extensions.

Those of you, who know me well, know that I love my short hair.  The ease of styling, the ability to wake up from a nap that included both drool and dreams and not have it look any different, the shampoo savings, I could go on and on, all make my “middle aged mom” do all that more satisfying.

However, as I move towards fully embracing my midlife crisis, something this morning made me want to justify having long, gorgeous, flowing hot chick locks.

Maybe I made the decision to love such short, low maintenance hair under a lot of freaking pressure, ok?  How many people out there have to live thru my daily personal hell?  How many of you have a husband who thinks its ok to take a crap while you brush your teeth? Is there something wrong if I just want really hot, sexy, easy to tousle hair, dammit? It could change my life, right?

Maybe it's the fact that I have to put a hand towel down on the sink in order to prevent my spare tire from resting against the cold tile countertop?  The fact that pretty much daily I have to dig thru my bathroom drawer to find the “good” tweezers to pluck the newest offending chin whisker?  That when I dare pick a pimple, there is a good chance that it will leave a scare, or worse, a wrinkle?  One of the benefits of being “fluffy” is that you don’t show as many wrinkles, but sheesh, what a compromise that is to make!

Every morning when I bend over to shave my legs, and yes, my toes, my back pops and cracks and reminds me of the torture I exposed it to in my younger days.  My poor ta tas angrily refuse to look up any more, punishing me for days when I thought bras were optional, and for relinquishing them to a very aggressive baby Mia.

Beautiful, chocolate brown, layered extensions could fix all that, right?  One flick of gorgeous hair over a somewhat supple shoulder and my husband will want to forget about taking the trash out and the dishes in the sink and throw me over his shoulder and carry me romantically into the bedroom, wouldn't it? 

My girls, who at many times have seen me curled up into a fetal position, banging my head against a wall,  or in a corner with a box of wine, would look at their gorgeous mommy with her long, lustrous hair with new eyes, stunned by her new found ability to be super mom, super wife and super employee all with one good blow out.  Not every mom in the Boosters club could pull it off, could they?

How hard could they be to take care of?  It’s not like I am that busy??  You can justify charging real hair on a credit card, can’t you?  Don’t get me wrong, I would never think of charging synthetic hair, that just wouldn’t make sense.

I went to the mall at lunch to return a pair of shorts that didn’t fit, to Torrid.  I groaned as I walked in and remembered once being delighted to wear the smallest size in the fat chick store.  As I waited impatiently for the clearly under trained sales associate to figure out how to credit my debit card, I studied the poster of the model on the wall above the cash register.  Obviously, the fact that she was probably a size 10 in a store full of chicks who wear elastic waist bands way more often then we would like to admit helped her look pretty smoking hot.  But guess what else she had?  UHHHHHHHmazing freaking hair! 

I came back to work to google my new must have accessory.  I know that my stunning hairdresser can work magic, but at what cost??

Apparently a pretty high freaking cost.  Sigh.  So what if people may think it’s a little selfish, and ok, kind of crazy.  How many years of poopy diapers, taco bell dinners, thankless children and a husband who accuses you of maybe sneaking oxycotin left over from your c-section should a girl have to endure before she can justify such a splurge?

My fantasy quickly ended when the cheap side of me remembered the stash of wigs buried somewhere deep in the depths of my closet.  Way underneath the piles and piles of dirty laundry, and clothes from many, many sizes ago.  Those will just have to deal for now.  But if one day soon one you happen to see me smiling broadly with my new Frederick’s of Hollywood do, make sure you help a sister out and leave a casserole of some sort on the doorstep of the Mongrain Baby Farm, because I am sure that we will all be tired of eating mac and cheese @ that point!

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