Friday, September 30, 2011

I Whip My Hair Back and Forth... and It Hurts My Neck


"The hair is the richest ornament of women." - Martin Luther

Ain't that the truth?! It's almost crazy when you think about it! No matter what designer outfit you put on, how many carats are in your ears and around your throat, or who airbrushed your makeup this morning, if your hair is not groomed, neither are you. Some women are lucky and have the luxury of hair that they can just run their fingers through and walk out of the house looking gorgeous! 

Not me. Never me. Ever. Like not even one time.

It all started when I was born. Like my son, I was born with a head full of straight blackish-brown hair. Then, it started to curl and kept on curling until I was a regular Shirley Temple. Life was good. Then, disaster: I learned to move. Wind, rain, carbon dioxide particles, random foliage, Azythromycin (yeah, I know it's an antibiotic, but I figure with everything else, this was probably there too), all of it got into my hair and thus began the downward spiral (curl pun intended) of the life of my hair. 

When I was 8 I moved out of my mother's house. It was time, I needed to spread my wings, see the rest of the Inland Empire. Unfortunately, the family I moved in with didn't know how to do my hair, so I was elevated to the position of full-time stylist at the tender age of 8, a feat most couldn't dream of. I say full-time stylist because at the time I had hair half way down my back, and for child that age, it may as well have been 40ft long. There was one style that I mastered quickly: the ponytail. Yes, the classic ponytail, so versatile, yet so simple! Fast forward 5 years and you'd find me in junior high, still rocking that ponytail. Every now and then I might try a half up, half down thing, but the next day, the PT (that's cool talk for ponytail) was back in action. It was my go-to 'do! Sure, I'd developed the bad habit of cutting the hair tie out of my hair when it was too tangled to remove and I got too frustrated to keep working on it, but hey, no biggie. And while it's true that I probably didn't actually get all the tangles out of my bushy, rat's nest of a PT for all of the 8th grade, you can bet your sweet ass that the front of my hair was slicked down with gobs of gel and looked damn good (in my 8th grade opinion, of course). 

By now I'd been living in the desert for a few years. You may not know this, but heat is the bane of the curl's existence. I'd gone from cute, Shirley ringlets to frizz. I can't elaborate on the frizz, because that's all there was. Frizz. I again came upon a turning point in my life: my introduction to the hot comb. And what a glorious change it was! I had straight hair! ME! It was amazing. Sure, as soon as I washed it, the frizz was back with a vengeance, angry for having been masked by the blistering heat of the comb, but now that I knew straight hair was within my grasp, I was a changed woman... or pre-teen, whatever. It was hell to get done since once it was straightened my hair literally touched my ass, thus it took forever, but it was worth it for those few short hours of silky smooth strands. I shit you not, some guy in Carl's, Jr. came up to me and told me he'd almost mistaken me for Mariah Carey. Of course, that just about made my millennium! 

Freshman year
One of my brighter days
Let's skip the odd stage that was my high school hair and go straight (haha, 'nother hair joke) to my college years. I'd dabbled in dying my hair in high school (black... *shudder*... those were dark times), but I found my true color right before college: Red. Yes, after years of being Melissa F., Fransaw, Mixed Melissa, and the ever popular Franswizzle, I'd evolved into Redhead Melissa.  How awesome is that?! But the fame took it's toll... or maybe it was the chemicals in the dyes. I'd first strip (translation = bleach) my hair of the previous color, then immediately apply a fresh coat of reddy goodness. The closer I got to graduation, the brighter it got. I went from an auburn haired freshman to a bright, fire-engine, crayola red, dead-from-constant-substance-abuse haired junior before I finally took pity on my poor bedraggled locks and dyed them brown.

That brings us to more recent years. I've had my up-dos and downs since I've lived here in San Diego, what with being a few miles from the ocean and the havoc the humidity wreaks on my hair. Now that I have a child, having a beautifully styled mane is one of my lesser concerns, but it's a concern nonetheless. As Martin Luther said, it's my richest ornament, I can't just chop it off all willy-nilly into some "mom-do"! Not that I wouldn't like too, but with the curls, any short 'do immediately becomes an afro. Oh, how I'd love to go to a salon and have my tresses dressed by a professional, to come out looking like a goddess with flowing strands that glint in the afternoon sun, but like it or not, the PT has rapidly risen to the top spot in my arsenal once again (and sometimes that's still pretty time consuming). So now I have mid-back length, brown, curly (but sometimes straight), poorly cut (because I did it myself) hair to serve as my ornament. 

I have my good days: 

And my NOT so good days:

I had thought about wrapping this post up with some feel-good comments about how my hair is just part of who I am, that I embrace it and I love it, blah, blah, sappy, blah! But seeing as how that "NOT so good day" was this morning, I'm thinking it's time I get my shit together and do something with this mop! I do love my hair, but I'll love it even more when I pick my new style for my new era as a mom. I've got it! Short, blond, asymmetrical bob! YES!

.... Alright I'm kidding... about the blond.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Kisses

Do you ever watch television and critique the way the actors kiss? I'll bet you have, even if you don't realize it. I'll be watching a love scene in a movie, thinking to myself "He's gonna do it... just lean in... stop talking and just--- what the hell was that?!" Maybe it's just me, but most television kisses leave a lot to be desired. I often think "That's not believable, if he really loved her, he'd kiss her like...(insert appropriate kiss type here)." There's never any middle ground in television kisses, it's either a quick, chaste peck on the lips or cheek with a pursed "I just sucked a lemon" face, or a "Let me taste those tonsils, baby!" type of affair.

Personally, I used to have very strict ideas about what a good kiss should entail. I hated for his mouth to be open too wide, and God forbid he leave any slobber on me, ick! And I know that in the movies it's all cute for the man to bury his hands deep in the woman's hair and guide her through the kiss, but seriously, no bueno. I spent at least a good hour doing my hair today, and if you touch it I'll never get it back to how I had it. I'll thank you to keep your hands at 10 and 2 (that's shoulders for anyone whose mind was wandering to a dirty place... though I'm not quite sure what time boobs would be). Why not on the hips? Because, hips invariably lead to ass grabbing, and I don't think it's appropriate for you to knead my ass in front of the group of 3rd graders who just happen to be walking by.

Despite my kissing ideology, I've recently met someone who kisses me in every way I always thought was awful. He opens his mouth as wide as he possibly can, engulfing my lips, sometimes my nose, eyes, even ear once. I don't think he's ever given me a kiss without leaving a trail of cold spittle in his wake, and he's grabbed my boobs during a kiss on many occasions. Yet and still, I allow it to persist. Hell, who am I kidding, I BEG for it! I ask for kisses at least 20 times a day and while he'll often ignore me, sometimes he'll grace me with that glorious, drool-filled kiss and I love every second of it.

It's strange how things change when you're a mommy.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

The Robe

I was telling some mom friends of mine the other day about my odd desire to buy a robe. Not just any robe, but the robe. What exactly is "the robe"? I'm glad you asked. The robe must be made of either satin or silk (though I'm poor, so I will gladly accept some cheaper knockoff material, so long as it gives the appearance of a more expensive texture) and it must be a solid color. However, if it's tasteful and not tacky and overdone, I would be willing to accept a nice floral print or abstract design. One point that is absolutely non-negotiable: it must be calf-length or longer. Melissa, you ask, why all the specifications? Why does it matter? Well, I'll tell you.

In this robe, I envision myself rising early from bed, around 6am, putting on the robe, and going downstairs to brew a pot of coffee in my well appointed kitchen. I sit and read the the newspaper while I wait, and not a virtual version, but the real deal. My husband descends from upstairs straightening his tie, ready for another day as a brilliant financial mind with some big name firm that you see on TV but really have no idea what they actually do. I pour us both a cup of coffee and we map out our day. He'll be home around 6pm, while I'll be having lunch with "the girls" after dropping Trey off at his expensive private preschool. We're having roast for dinner. What kind of roast? Who the hell cares, it's roasted meat and it'll be delicious, served with mashed potatoes, a vegetable, and wine for Curtis and me (milk for Trey), and it'll be eaten in our dining room at a dining room table that's too big for our small family, but is perfect for entertaining, which I do often. After that it'll be a nice long bubble bath for me. I slip into a lovely silk nightgown (not a nightie, this isn't that kinda party... not that night anyway), then put the robe over it and when I come out, Curtis is sitting in bed reading a book. I sit gently on the edge of the bed, apply my hand and face cream, then lay down on my memory foam, pillow-top, feather filled, automatically adjustable bed and slip into happy dreams, readying myself to do it all again tomorrow.

Ahhh, what a glorious life, right? How lucky am I? Not that damn lucky.

I searched and searched until I found the right robe, ordered it, and it arrived 3 days ago. I'm still waiting for it's magic to take effect, but so far I'm still living in my 2 bedroom apartment, drinking canned vanilla lattes from the refrigerator, spending my day snacking on the couch and playing with my son. Curtis gets up early, at around 5am, but he doesn't put on a suit to go crunch numbers, he puts on fatigues to go weld stuff on the naval base all day. Dinner is a pre-made lasagna from Marie Callender's that simply requires me to cut a slit in the film across the top and put it in the oven for about an hour (or 12 minutes in the microwave if we're feeling impatient). Maybe I'll open a can of vegetables to go along with it... or not. Curtis takes over baby duty so I can go take a quick shower, then toss my hair up into a messy mass of curls that will inevitably come loose and try to snake it's tendrils around my face, suffocating me in my sleep. I throw on whatever big t-shirt I can find and a pair of comfy underwear (and those are Hanes bikini-cuts, for those who were unsure) then exit the room to find my husband not reading a book, but sitting on the couch playing his umpteenth season of NCAA Football '12 on his Xbox while my poor child sits there bored, waiting for someone to play with him. Curtis will be out there all night since he'll end up falling asleep on the couch, game still on and controller in hand. After I finally get my baby to sleep, I'll climb onto my cheap, rapidly deteriorating mattress and sneak in some more Facebooking while I catch up on whichever show my DVR recorded for me tonight. When I finally look at the clock and realize it's 1am and I'll need to be up in just a few short hours, I can't help but look over at the robe draped across my ottoman and feel cheated. What the hell, Robe?! This is NOT what you promised me when I saw you on TV, on all those rich women in the Hamptons, in their billion dollar homes. What did I do wrong?

Maybe if I order the slippers...