Thursday, September 1, 2011

H is for Hairdo ... and heliotrope {part 1}


Last week, I hit a wall. I felt worn out, tired, frumpy and frazzled. There has been a lot of change and upheaval in my life lately. Whenever this happens, I tend to do something drastic with my hair. At fifteen, I tried to give myself a haircut. I ended up looking like I had a run-in with Sweeney Todd. Three days after Baby T was born, I (or rather my mom, who is an ah-mazing hairstylist and has the added perk of being free) chopped off seven inches of dead ends and dyed it red. I was tired of washing spit up out of it and learned over the course of a mere thirty six hours that it is almost impossible to take a shower everyday when you have a newborn. Which means you smell like sour milk. Or feta cheese, as my husband kindly described it.

So, this past week I did what any self-respecting mommy would do.  I got a haircut. My mom cut it again; she did a great job. I also dyed it. Purple. Yes, like Barney. No, I do not love you, too. 

I thought, "What the h-e double hockey sticks? I am young and fun and nobody really cares if my hair is heliotrope." Well ...

I had some good reactions. My brothers loved it. Which is actually usually a bad thing, considering at least one of them would make Stacy London want to commit suicide (you know who you are). 

My mom said, "I really like the cut." Well, of course you like the cut. You cut it. That's really helpful, mom.

My husband was quite excited and asked me to text him a picture so he could show his coworkers my new 'do. I'm pretty sure the conversation went something like this:

"Look, guys, I TOLD you I was married to a crazy person! Here's the proof!" 
"Yeah, man, your wife is loco. Sorry, dude." 
*man hug, following by fist pump*

Then there was the guy who yelled "HEY BABY! WANNA GO FOR A RIDE???" through my car window while walking his dog. I'm pretty sure he was drunk. Which means it shouldn't really bother me. But I had a mild panic attack anyway. Did I look like a hooker? Was the combination of sleep deprivation (an ailment common to both new mommies and hookers ... har har) and purple hair too much?

Had I gone too far?

Julie, a very nice lady who goes to our church, came up to me Sunday after service and said, "That's some bright hair you got there ... shoulda seen it coming." (see aforementioned note about Stacy Clinton and suicide. Apparently weird fashion choices are a contagious disease. IDK)

Finally there was Deb. Deb is my 50-something coworker. She is really, really sweet and kind and a great person. She's one of Talen's many surrogate grandparents. She also tends to tell it like it is. A lot. I mean, this lady can TALK. When she said nothing when I walked into work with my violaceous locks, I figured it must be bad.

She was silent for an hour (well, more like 15 minutes, but for Deb, that is a loonnngg time). I felt like a leper. A purple pariah. Then I said something mildly stupid and it was pretty much back to normal.

The next day we were talking about something random when she says, out of the blue purple, "At least nobody asked, 'WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR HAIR?' I mean, you were such a pretty girl." I was silent for a moment. Then I said, "yeah", which is a characteristic pithy and meaningful response of mine. Because I am brilliant like that. Yeah.

So anyways, after my awesome/amazing response, the conversation kinda tapered off. Then Deb continued, randomly, "You look like a rainbow sprite." Now, I am, after all, only two decades old. I had no idea what she was talking about. So I said, you guessed it, "yeah". Because I'm thinking rainbow sprites are probably pretty cute. I mean, the fairy toys I had growing up were always slender and pale, with lovely big eyes and nice curves and cute hair. Kinda like Tinkerbell ...

So, while putting this post together, I decided to look up Rainbow Sprites. Remember now, I'm expecting a cute little pixie with an amaranthine mane. Those of you who are more than two decades old are now laughing hysterically. Because you know what rainbow sprites really look like, don't you? Yeah ...

Way to tell it like it is, Deb. 

I'm going to go rub Rogaine all over myself, stuff my face with Oreos, and find some rainbow leg warmers and an antenna headband ... and a fanny pack ...

I'll let you know how it goes.

Signing off,

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