** Prelude: There is nothing, I repeat, NOTHING wrong with soccer moms. If you are one, you are a braver and stronger woman than I am, and I bow. I really do. But I ain’t one. That’s all this is to say. No offense meant. Back to our regularly scheduled programming. **
The other day I asked my friend Don (of the Dude Sweater) if he could picture me as a soccer mom. I said it with some attitude, I’m sure. I was positive I knew the response the question would engender. So I was really, really surprised when he said, “Well, yeah.”
I repeated this to the Divine Ms. Em while she was here. And she kinda looked at her feet and said something, “Ummm. You do have the hair, after all….”
And then to Lala (why was I still expecting anyone to come to my aid?), I repeated the prior two exchanges. She helped me out by saying, “Well, your hair is kinda… sensible.” Em laughed. (Yeah, but were they laughing later? When I locked them out of the car and made them spell Albuquerque while rubbing their bellies and patting their heads? No, they weren’t laughing then. Uh-uh.)
This just wouldn’t do! Sensibility? Look at my yarn stash and tell me I’m sensible. MY kids wouldn’t play soccer, they’d have to spin fleece, four hours a day, right after kickboxing and just before harpsichord practice. Oh, cripes. That DOES sound rather sensible, doesn’t it?
Anyway, I went to the salon today. I had to. It was required. Enough of this cutting my own hair. I’d have a professional do it. I’d get something a little funky, a little On The Edge, a little punk, just a smidgen of wild and crazy. People would look at me on the street and think, “Hey. That’s a wild and crazy gal. I can tell by her wild and crazy hair. Yep. Wild and crazy, that one.” I can’t afford color right now, but I chose a fun salon, and my hair stylist was nineteen years old, with more than four colors in her hair.
We talked. I told her the whole story. I explained how I was cooler than my haircut would have others believe. She nodded. She said all the right things. She showed me the right pictures.
And then she cut my hair EXACTLY like I’ve been cutting it for the last eight months.
I mean, really. It’s thinned out a little, which is good because my hair is so damned heavy, but otherwise it’s the same freaking haircut. I didn’t know what to say when she spun me around. I think I just said, “Oh! Look at that! Wow!”
So I went to Longs and bought styling products. Because I think I might try that. Styling, I mean. Can’t hurt. Or I might go buy a soccer ball instead. And maybe a kid.
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